by J. R. Rain
“You’re quite graceful, Aaron King, when you want to be. Are you sure you weren’t a dancer in a past life?”
“I’m sure.”
“How come we never go out dancing?”
“I’m too old to dance. I might break a hip or something.”
She grinned and drank some more wine, then hummed a little song to herself. “Rubbernecking” by one Elvis Aaron Presley. One of my favorites. I stirred the spaghetti. It was looking more and more whitish, and thus more and more appetizing.
“So what do you think happened to this girl?” asked Kelly.
“I think something very bad happened to this girl.”
“Can you help her?”
“As best as I can.”
“And your best....”
“Is pretty damn good,” I finished.
“You’re going to find her, aren’t you?”
“Dead or alive,” I said.
I poured the spaghetti into a colander, drained it, then dumped the steaming heap of noodles into a large plastic bowl. The spaghetti was white and plump and looked nothing like it had just a few minutes earlier.
“Like magic,” I said. “Hard and turgid one minute, soft and supine the next.”
“You do realize that we’re talking about spaghetti here, right?”
“Yes.”
“Seven-year-olds can make spaghetti.”
“No,” I said. “They can make magic.”
Chapter Twenty-one
“Let’s talk about your deceased brother,” said Dr. Vivian.
“I never had a brother,” I said.
“But you did,” she said softly. “For nine months, in the womb, you had a twin brother.”
It was just past nine o’clock in the morning. The sunlight was shining through the partially open blinds. This time there was no cat and bird high drama. At least, not yet.
I said, “I see you’ve been doing your research.”
“As have you, Mr. King.”
“What do you mean?”
She sat back. “I specialize in twin research. You knew that, which is undoubtedly why you picked me to be your therapist.”
“I picked you because you’re cuter than sin.”
She ignored that. “Further, you probably know that I’m a twin myself. As were you.”
Indeed I was. For nine months, like she said. Suddenly I could barely speak. “But he was born dead,” I said.
“But he was alive with you in the womb. For nine months he was alive and you had yourself a twin brother.”
I found myself staring out the window, through the partially open blinds, at a gently swaying tree branch. I locked onto it, watching its every movement, absorbing its every detail. As I did so, I could hear my own heart beating, loudly and powerfully in my chest. And as I meditated on the branch and lost myself to its texture and movements, as I listened to my own heart beating steadily in my chest, I heard something else. Something not entirely unexpected.
After all, I had heard it before.
It was another heartbeat, a tiny heartbeat, and it rose up through the ages, up through the depths of my soul, up through my subconscious. Demanding to be heard.
And it wasn’t my own.
It was the heartbeat of someone who had been very close to me. The heartbeat of someone who had been stolen away from me. The heartbeat of someone I had never had the pleasure to know.
Dr. Vivian was watching me. I could feel those big eyes of hers on me. But she said nothing, letting me work through whatever issues her words had stirred within me. The branch outside the window waved gently, sometimes even scraping the exterior of the house, and even the window itself, creating a grating, high-pitched sound on par with fingernails on a chalkboard.
Dr. Vivian eased forward. “How do you feel about losing your twin brother, Mr. King?”
I sucked in some air and my eyes stung with a thin coat of salty tears. “I think it’s a damn shame the little guy never met his ma,” I said.
She was quiet, but the tree branch wasn’t. For now, it continued grating, scraping, the sound of it filling the small office, momentarily blocking out the tiny heartbeats in my head.
I said, “I think it’s a damn shame that while I was in the hospital with her, he was being buried on some hillside, left alone to rot in the cold and dirt and emptiness.”
Dr. Vivian didn’t move.
“I think it’s a damn shame he never got to play with me, or laugh with me, or grow up with me, or....”
Words failed me. Tears blurred my vision.
“Or sing with you,” she finished, somehow reading my thoughts.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I think...I think I would have very much liked to sing with my older brother, Jessie. He was born first you know. He was my older brother, and I think he would have had a damn fine voice.”
“How much older was he?”
“Thirty minutes,” I said. “And they say he never took even a single breath.”
“Do you blame the doctors for not saving him?”
“The doctor was a good man. Knowing Jessie was probably lost, he was more concerned about saving me.”
“And what if you had been born first?” she asked quietly.
“Then it would have been me up there on that hill, ma’am,” I said. “And if my brother had a chance to live, he might have done things differently. He might have been a wonderful father and a wonderful husband, and he might not have ruined his life.”
“You feel guilty for living?”
“Hard not to,” I said.
“Because Jessie might have done things differently?”
“No. Because Jessie might have done things better.”
Chapter Twenty-two
As a light rain pleasantly tapped my sliding glass door, with a cold beer in hand, I pressed the “Play” button on my DVD remote control and settled in to watch a movie called “Some Don’t Like it Hot”.
Catchy.
It was Miranda’s first movie, made back when she was eighteen-years-old, and fresh off the boat, so to speak. It was about a gang of bank robbers who disguise themselves as women, and end up kidnapping a female bank employee during their escape. The employee is, of course, Miranda, and those in the gang invariably vie for her affections, all while on the run from the law.
Two hours and a six-pack of beer later, I slipped in movie #2, called “The Shallows”. This one was a suspense thriller, and a little too violent for my tastes. In it, Miranda plays a character kidnapped by a serial killer and forced to live in his basement, where she comes oh-so-close to escape, only to be killed after a botched police rescue.
Three shots of whiskey later and I was on to her third movie, and quickly losing my ability to grasp plots. This one seemed to be about a College frat party gone wrong. Or right, depending on how you looked at it. There were lots of breasts and farm animals and far too many hairy guys for my liking. Although she didn’t have much to work with, Miranda played her part admirably, and in the end the nerd in the group somehow managed to win her affections by besting the jock in a game of poker. Been there, done that.
After six straight hours of mindless nonsense, I finally turned the TV off and staggered to the bathroom. Once done, I plopped down in front of my computer and spent the next two hours looking up everything I could find about Miranda Scott. In the end, after perusing hundreds of articles and dozens of unofficial websites, I was no closer to finding her than when I had started the evening.
But I was thorough, dammit.
Drunk, but thorough.
Chapter Twenty-three
It was noon and the day was warm and I was dressed in jeans and a Polo shirt and white sneakers. After a quick stop at the pet supply store for my shiny new crime-fighting tool, I parked my car in the Trader Joe’s parking lot, next to the spot where Miranda’s car had been found.
I sat in my old car, in the heat, and studied the scene. I knew Miranda’s car was now in a police-impound yard, being thoroughly scoured
for any forensic evidence. I wished them luck. She had come alone, and left by other means. I was confident her vehicle would turn up nothing, but you never knew. Then again her assailant, for all I knew, had leaned a hand on her hood or inadvertently lost a nose hair. We’ll see.
According to the police file, it was unknown what she had purchased that day at Trader Joe’s. Her credit card showed no activity, so it was assumed she had paid with cash. Her cell phone records indicated nothing out of the ordinary, although she did place one call to a close female friend about an hour before her trip to the market. That friend, of course, had been thoroughly interviewed, and it turns out the conversation had only lasted three minutes. Just a quick hello call. Miranda’s last hello call.
So where were the groceries? They hadn’t been in or around her car. The car itself had been found locked and secured. Which means she took them with her, wherever she had gone.
Which means she never made it back to her car.
There was an exterior surveillance camera, which was only pointed at the front entrance, and which only Detective Colbert had been privy to. According to the detective, Miranda could be seen entering Trader Joe’s through the automatic sliding doors. Nineteen minutes later she is seen leaving alone, exiting with a single bag of groceries. Ten seconds later, a man does indeed follow her out, a tall blond man who may or may not have been a bum. At any rate, the blond man had entered the store about five minutes prior to Miranda’s arrival, and so the police had dismissed him as a possible suspect, or even a person of interest.
But I knew otherwise. I knew the man was no doubt the same man, the bum, Ed had seen following her around the store, the same guy who had taken a keen interest in her after her arrival. He had followed her out, and what happened next I didn’t know, except that she had apparently disappeared from the face of the earth.
True, I didn’t know what happened to her, but I was figuring the bum probably did.
Trader Joe’s, at the time of her disappearance, had been damn busy. At that hour cars would have been trawling the parking lot in search of a spot. Having shopped here often myself, I knew the feeling of desperation to find a spot. So, more than likely, she had not been hauled kicking and screaming into some unknown car. There would have been too many witnesses for such a brazen kidnapping.
So what does that mean?
“It means she knew the guy,” I said to myself.
How do you know it’s a guy?
“Call it a hunch.”
No groceries in the car. No keys in the door. No sign of a scuffle. No report of foul play, no report of a girl needing help, and no report of someone being abducted.
Which is why Detective Colbert figured she had split on her own accord, a twenty-two year old runaway.
It was a nice theory and it made his job easier.
But I had a different theory. Then again, my theory was a work in progress.
I stepped out of my car and shut the door behind me. Heat waves rose off the baking pavement. There was no reason to search the crime scene—if it was a crime scene—as it had been thoroughly scoured by the SID investigators; so far, no physical evidence of any type had turned up.
Trader Joe’s was quiet at this early hour, an ideal time to shop. I strolled past the long line of grocery carts, crossed in front of the sliding doors, although I didn’t go in, and kept going until I was standing on the sidewalk that ran in front of the store. In front of me was a street called Rowena Ave.
Now, if I were a bum, where would I go?
Across the street was another, bigger, grocery store. Although bigger, my impression of it was that it wasn’t as popular as the Trader Joe’s. I continued scanning. There were three, yes three, video rentals stores all within a stone’s throw of each other. Grocery stores and video stores, yes. Bums, no. The street, as far as I could tell, was presently bum-free, but that didn’t mean they weren’t here, somewhere. Hiding. Drinking. Bumming.
Silver Lake is comprised mostly of young Hollywood types. The assistant directors, the TV writers, the up-and-coming actors and film students. Young Hollywood aside, the area was not immune to its share of the housing impaired. Hey, if you’re gonna go homeless somewhere, might as well do it in southern California, right? Sand, sunshine, and babes. And enough money floating around to keep you fat and happy forever.
The day was warming and the sun was hot on my face. Sweat was building up between my shoulder blades. Any movement at all would probably jiggle the sweat droplets free.
If I were a bum, where would I go?
My scanning eyes found a small, rundown convenience store about a half a block down the street. The hand-painted sign out front read simply: “Liquor”. Graffiti covered the wall facing me, and I had no doubt that graffiti covered the other walls, too. A thin black man was hunkered down near a payphone that I seriously doubted worked, and next to him was a full to overflowing shopping cart. Not surprisingly, the shopping cart wasn’t full to overflowing with groceries.
If I was a bum, I suddenly knew where I would go. A bum-friendly liquor store.
Chapter Twenty-four
The liquor store was in shambles. Dirty floors, narrow aisles, messy shelves. If I owned the place I would be embarrassed. The man behind the counter, a very small, older Korean man, did not appear embarrassed. Instead, he appeared very interested in the newspaper he was reading. Sitting on a shelf behind him was a flickering, black and white, closed-circuit television. Framed within in it, I could see myself standing at the counter, sporting my striking head of gray-brown hair, looking a little heavy. But you know what they say: the camera always adds ten pounds.
I continued standing at the counter and the little man continued reading his paper—and continued not bothering to look up. Probably because I hadn’t set anything on the counter.
He calmly turned a page.
I cleared my throat. He turned another page. I grabbed a homemade peanut butter cookie wrapped in cellophane and pushed it across the counter. He looked at it. “Two dolla’,” he said.
I noticed that the Aaron King standing in the closed-circuit TV screen was looking a bit exasperated. Handsome, granted, but exasperated. I didn’t blame him one bit. Two dolla’ for a peanut butter cookie was highway robbery. I opened my wallet.
“There’s a bum who comes around here,” I said.
The clerk turned back to his paper. “Bums always come ‘round here.”
“This one is tall and blond and sports a ponytail. He usually has a dog with him.”
The dog, of course, was the gimmick. Probably tripled the guy’s handouts. The clerk looked up from his paper and looked at me for the first time. He grinned. “I think you need one more cookie. You a growing boy.”
“Oh, brother,” I said.
I slapped a twenty on the counter. He smiled widely and reached for it. “Sure,” he said. “He come in here all the time. Buy single malt whiskey. The good stuff. That dog make him lots of money.”
“He ever buy anything for the dog?”
“It look like I sell dog food?”
“Good point,” I said. “When did you last see him?”
“One hour ago.”
My pulse quickened. “Any idea where he went?”
“You think I know where every bum go?”
“Fine,” I said. “Can you at least point me which direction he went?”
“One more cookie.”
“Unbelievable.”
I set a five dollar bill on the counter and he jerked his thumb left. I grabbed my three twenty-five dollar peanut-butter cookies, and left.
Chapter Twenty-five
I walked west along Rowena in the hot sun, squinting through my motorcycle cop sunglasses, eyes pealed for a bum and his dog.
If I were a bum with a freshly procured bottle of the good stuff, where would I take it? Well, I would want to drink it ASAP, of course, especially if I was an alcoholic. Also, I would want my privacy, especially if I was drinking the good stuff. No passing the
bottle around a tent city.
So it would have to be close, and it would have to be cool, and it would have to be away from the cops. I paused, scanning the area. To the north was a high school. To the south were nicer two-story homes. Neither direction was bum friendly.
I continued west. I was close, I knew it. Somewhere nearby a bum was drinking. Safe from prying eyes. I turned left down an alley, between an auto body shop and a dry cleaners and came to a parking lot which was mostly empty of cars, and definitely empty of bums. I retreated back to the sidewalk, stopped, scanned the street again, wiped sweat from my brow...and saw something promising.
At the far end of the street was a construction site, a half-finished shopping center, in fact. The place was empty and lifeless, surrounded by a pathetic-looking chain link fence that was doing more leaning than standing.
Very bum friendly.
An ounce or two of sweat later, I was there at the site, moving along the lean-to fence until I found a gap big enough for a guy my size to squeeze through. Once inside, I stepped over a loose smattering of two-by-fours, deftly avoided a jutting carpenter’s nail, and headed over to the partially finished building.
Here, I pulled out my shiny new toy. Dog whistles are a bit of a mystery to man. Or, at least, a mystery to this man. You blow the damn thing, nothing comes out but a lot of hot air, and yet dogs perk right up. Makes you wonder what else they’re hearing that we can’t.
Anyway, with the sun high above and a small breeze working its way over the exposed dirt and rock of the construction site, I lifted the narrow whistle to my lips and blew as hard as I could into it.
And heard nothing, of course, but before I was done blowing the reaction was immediate. Dogs from seemingly everywhere were barking at once. And furiously.