Customized surveillance equipment.
Who was Bud spying on?
“They weren’t very forthcoming over the phone, so I figure if I show up in person and threaten them with a subpoena, I’ll get the answers I’m looking for.” He sounded as excited as a kid on Christmas morning.
He was right. My mood did improve.
“Good thinking,” I told him.
“Uh, I wondered if you’d like to meet me for lunch,” he suggested. “Say, noon at the Mansion? Then I could fill you in on whatever I turn up.”
Had Malone just asked me out?
I could swear he’d said he wanted to do lunch at the Mansion on Turtle Creek, a spot that had long been one of Cissy’s favorites for Sunday brunch. Even I had to admit that the place had real class. Men were required to wear coats and ties to get service, not just shirts and shoes.
“Andy?”
“Did you say noon?” I repeated, wanting to be sure I hadn’t misinterpreted him in my sleepy state.
“I did.”
I almost said “yes,” until I remembered I was supposed to take the early shift that day at Jugs. I had to be there a half hour before it opened at eleven.
“I can’t, Malone,” I told him, hearing his silence on the other end and wondering if he was as disappointed as I was. “I’m on duty.”
“At the restaurant?”
“Uh-huh.”
Silence.
“How about a rain check?” I quickly filled in the void before he had a chance to launch into another lecture. “Maybe a late dinner after work?”
“I’ll clear my calendar.”
That sounded like a “yes.”
I pushed tangled hair from my eyes and caught my blurry image in the bureau mirror across the room. Sometimes it paid not to have 20/20 vision. “We’ll talk later, okay?”
“I’ll touch base with you after I pay a visit to Hi-Tech.”
“Great.”
“Oh, and Andy.” He paused before turning serious and telling me, “Don’t do anything stupid.”
The line clicked as he hung up.
More slowly, I replaced the receiver, ignoring his parting words and dwelling instead on his invitation.
A date with Malone.
I pushed the covers away and swung my feet over the side of the bed, planting them firmly on the floor.
Maybe things were looking up already, I thought, as I shuffled into the bathroom for a leisurely shower.
The address for the apartment complex where Sarah Carter had lived was just off Belt Line, several miles west of the Villa Mesa Shopping Center, behind one of the hundred or so restaurants that lined the busy street.
I parked in front of Building B. Apartment 252 was up a narrow metal staircase that vibrated with each step.
When I got there, I knocked soundly on the door.
No one answered.
“Sarah?” I called, pressing my face near the weather-beaten wood. I pounded that much harder. “Sarah, are you there?”
“She’s gone.”
I turned to find a slender black woman standing outside the apartment two doors down.
“You’re looking for Sarah Carter, right?”
I nodded. “I need to find her.” Almost without thinking, I added, “It’s her paycheck. She never picked it up from the restaurant.” I patted the purse hanging over my shoulder. “It’s her money, after all.”
The woman crossed her arms and leaned against the doorjamb. “Well, you won’t find her at this address. She moved out, I guess a couple weeks ago.”
My heart did a back slide into my stomach. “Do you happen to know where she went?”
She shook her head. “The girl didn’t talk much except to say ‘hi’ now and then. She kept to herself mostly. Didn’t hardly ever see anyone come visit her, although I caught a man leaving her place early one morning when I went out for a paper.” She lifted a hand about six inches above her crown. “Big guy. All muscles and hair gel. He looked like a player, you know, ’cuz he was even checking me out.”
Sounded like Bud Hartman.
“You said she left?”
“A truck came by and loaded up her stuff, though Sarah wasn’t around when they did it. Just some older woman I figured was her mama.”
Damn.
“Sorry you missed her.”
“Me, too,” I said and started down the steps, feeling more dejected with each one I descended.
“Hey!”
I paused halfway down and looked up to see the woman bent over the railing, waving at me.
“Check with the manager in the office. It’s Building A. There’s a sign so you can’t miss it. Maybe he’ll know where Sarah’s gone to.”
“Thanks, I will.”
I got into the Jeep and drove over to Building A, braking in front of a sign marked BLUEBONNET VILLAS—OFFICE.
An overweight male wearing a UT-DALLAS T-shirt rose from behind an oak-veneered desk as I entered.
He smiled eagerly, the same way the saleswomen at Saks did when they saw Mother coming.
“Hi, there. Can I help you? Are you interested in leasing a place here at beautiful Bluebonnet Villas?”
I hated to disappoint him, and I knew I would. So I got right to the point. “Actually, I’m trying to locate a change of address for a former tenant of yours named Sarah Carter. I know she lived here until a couple weeks ago, and I’ve got her paycheck from work. She never came back to pick it up, and no one knows where to send it.” The fib had seemed to work with Sarah’s neighbor so I spun it again. “Could you tell me if she left a forwarding address with you?”
The smile disappeared completely. The young man’s cherubic face looked suddenly suspicious. “Are you a relative?”
“Well, no . . .”
“Then I’m not allowed to give out that information. Sorry.” He rounded the desk and plunked his oversized body into a less-than-comfortable-appearing secretary’s chair.
If there’s one thing I’d learned from my mother over the years, it was never to take “no” for an answer. Though, come to think of it, I don’t recall ever hearing anyone refuse Cissy anything to begin with.
How about Julie Costello? She always seemed to get what she wanted with just a sway of her hips. Couldn’t hurt for me to try to use my feminine wiles.
With a sigh and bat of eyes, I approached and leaned on the desk, twirling a stray hair around my finger and going for an expression that was both cute and needy. “C’mon, um”—I desperately sought a name plate on the desk only to come up empty—“uh, sweetie pie.” I tried to mimic Julie’s drawl, as my years in Chicago had practically erased mine. “It’s not like I’m asking for her Social Security number or the PIN for her ATM card. I just need an address so I can hand over her money.”
Maybe it was the term of endearment that did the trick. He blushed and squinted up at me like he was almost ready to give in. “I dunno. My boss would have my job if I gave out personal information. Though for what he pays me . . .”
He let the sentence trail off, and I wondered if something other than my molasses-sweet voice was drawing this fly in.
Dropping the hair I’d been twirling, I hastily reached into my purse and removed my wallet. Thankfully, I had a twenty-dollar bill, which I slipped out and placed in front of him. It always worked in the movies.
“Just write down the address, would ya, sugar?” I tried again, noting that his eyes were glued to the cash. Definitely a good sign, right? “I’m sure Sarah would be very grateful.”
He hesitated, but only for a second. Then he palmed the bill and stuck it into his shirt pocket. “Let me find her file,” he said and began to rummage through the desk, finally emerging with a slim manila folder that he placed in his lap and opened wide.
“Hmmm.” He ran a finger down a page until he stopped midpoint, obviously finding what he was looking for. He grabbed a Post-it from a pad and scribbled something on it before handing it over.
“This is all I’ve got. I
t’s not an official change of address or anything, like at the post office. It was for in case she left anything. Which she didn’t.”
“I understand.” Hey, something was better than nothing, which is what I’d had when I’d walked in.
“Hey.” He half-rose from the chair, the faux leather making noises like breaking wind—at least I hoped it was the faux leather—and he leaned across the desk, eyeballing me in the same way my second cousin Henry had when we were eight and he’d tried to coax me into the coat closet with bribes of watermelon Jolly Ranchers. “You want to, maybe, hang out with me later? I get off at six. There’s a Star Trek marathon on the SciFi channel, and my folks have a big screen”
Was he kidding?
I was at least ten years his senior, and, God help me, but he looked like the Kewpie doll I’d seen appraised on Antiques Roadshow. All he was missing were the red-and-white-striped pajamas.
Still, it was flattering, in a rather weird way.
“Oh, geez, love that Captain Kirk, but I’m busy tonight,” I said and backed away from the desk. “Live long and prosper!” I wiggled the slip of paper at him before I high-tailed it out of there.
Well, I was busy that night.
I might even have a real date if I didn’t blow it.
I was so relieved to escape the office that I didn’t look at the note until I was settled in the Jeep and had the air conditioner, running. Then I flattened it out on my thigh.
His handwriting was miserable to read, but I looked it over several times and finally figured it out.
Sarah Carter
7000 Walnut Hill
Dallas, Texas
Why did that address seem so familiar?
I chewed on it until something clicked.
Wait a doggoned minute.
I dug inside my bag and found the business card that the ringleader of Mothers Against Pornography had pushed at me the other night.
THE WOMEN’S WELLNESS CLINIC
7000 WALNUT HILL LANE
PEGGY MARTIN, R.N.
Well, look at that.
Did Sarah work at the Wellness Clinic? Had Peggy Martin’s crusade convinced the former Jugs waitress to leave behind the lavender short-shorts and panting men for a gig in the medical field, filing for seven-fifty an hour as Molly had mentioned?
Or was she a patient?
Had Bud’s “attentions” somehow required her to seek a doctor’s care?
Though it seemed strange for her to leave a medical office as a forwarding address for her apartment manager.
I mean, I adored my gynecologist, but I don’t imagine she’d appreciate my using her place of business as a return address.
Whatever the answer, I didn’t want to wait any longer than necessary to find out. I put the Jeep in gear and headed off for the Women’s Wellness Clinic, determined to find Sarah.
Chapter 20
I took Central Expressway, driving south to Walnut Hill.
The clinic was situated just off the exit ramp, and I made a fast right into its small parking lot after leaving the highway. The building was a squat red-brick number with stickered windows and signs stuck in the dirt warning of monitoring by Smith Alarms. There were bars over the windows, something that was becoming more common in the neighborhood, despite its close proximity to Presbyterian Hospital and the seemingly omnipresent traffic.
When I entered the front door, a security guard in blue uniform gave me the once-over, then nodded as I passed. I thought of Peggy Martin protesting outside Jugs and wondered if the Women’s Wellness Clinic hadn’t experienced some protests of its own.
The receptionist glanced up from behind a Formica countertop as I emerged into a utilitarian-looking waiting area. Atop her cropped brown hair sat the band of a telephone headset, the gear reminding me of the clunky retainers kids used to wear.
She smiled nervously as I approached. “Can I help you, ma’am? Do you have an appointment with the doctor?”
Despite her calling me “ma’am,” I smiled back and said, “I’d like to speak with Sarah Carter, if I could.”
The curve of her lips disappeared. Her nervousness didn’t. “Sarah Carter?” she repeated.
Maybe the earphones made it hard for her to hear.
“Yes, Sarah Carter. Does she work here? Or maybe she’s a patient? Either way, I need to find her, and I was given this place as her forwarding address. I hoped she might be around.”
“You were given our address . . . for Sarah?” She looked at me oddly, and I started to feel self-conscious. Maybe I should’ve talked to Malone before driving down. If Sarah were a patient, they were hardly obligated to reveal that information.
“Please, it’s a matter of life or death.” As soon as it was out of my mouth, I could hardly believe I’d uttered the cliché. It sounded so dramatic, though I reminded myself it was true.
“Maybe you should talk to Ms. Martin.” The guarded expression softened the slightest bit, and I saw her fingers punching buttons on the telephone, even as she suggested it.
“Peggy Martin? She’s the nurse who runs Mothers Against Pornography, right?”
“Yes.”
So Peggy knew Sarah? Had she stopped her in the parking lot after her shift at Jugs one evening, just as she’d done with me? Had she convinced her not to return? Maybe that was the reason behind Sarah’s disappearance. Bud could have abused her one time too many, until she’d had it, paving the way for Nurse Peggy to ride in to the rescue.
“Your name, please?”
“Andy Kendricks,” I told her, even spelling it. “I met Ms. Martin the other night at Jugs. She might remember me. Tell her I was the girl in the Jeep.”
The receptionist blinked, light dawning in her eyes, and I could practically see her brain shifting gears. “Oh, you work at Jugs. I see,” she murmured and watched me closely as she fiddled with her headset, probably listening to the telephone ring in another part of the building. “She’s not answering her extension, so she must be with a patient. I’ll try buzzing that exam room.”
I tapped my fingers on the counter and waited.
After a few seconds, she nodded and said, “Will do,” into her headset. Then she looked up at me. “If you’ll have a seat, Peggy will be out in a few minutes.”
“Thanks.”
There were only a few other women in the waiting room: a very pregnant one who seemed about my age and another who appeared far too young to have even driven to the clinic on her own.
I sat down in the nearest blue vinyl seat and picked through a ragged pile of magazines on the adjacent table. Parenting Today, Good Housekeeping, Highlights for Children. Not exactly my cup of tea.
Selecting the topmost issue of Good Housekeeping, I thumbed through it to find page after page torn in halves or fourths or missing altogether where someone had apparently lifted the recipes.
“Miss Kendricks?”
Setting aside the mutilated magazine, I rose to my feet and smoothed the wrinkles from my khakis. Peggy Martin’s familiar round face with the worried eyes stared at me from the doorway. She had on pink scrubs and Reeboks with reflector strips on the sides that made her look as if she were about to go for a run.
“You wanted to see me?”
“Could we talk privately?” I asked, not wanting any stray ears to hear the questions I needed to ask her.
“Of course.” Her brows arched, betraying her curiosity. “Follow me.”
She led me up a narrow hall past those metal scales that always added five pounds to your weight, between walls plastered with posters depicting the dangers of STDs and diagrams graphically depicting a woman’s body in the various stages of pregnancy.
I actually felt relieved that I was sleeping alone by the time I’d walked that gauntlet.
She entered the first opened door on the left, and I followed her inside to find an exam room with a stool, a single chair, and a paper-covered table with metal stirrups that made me want to cross my legs.
Peggy shut the door behi
nd us, but remained standing. I sat on the stool and surveyed the blue countertop behind the examining table. There were glass containers with tongue depressors, gauze, and huge Q-tips as well as labeled boxes full of disposable thermometer tips, syringes, gloves, and other sterile items.
Cabinets above the shelf and drawers below likely hid even more interesting medical paraphernalia. Things that poked and prodded and generally made me want to stay out of doctors’ offices as much as possible.
I swallowed hard and turned away.
Peggy was watching.
“Uh,” I started, ever eloquent, “I don’t know if you remember me, but we met the other night in the parking lot of Jugs.”
“Oh, I remember you, dear.” She smiled, and her Moon Pie face crinkled. “I’m so glad you’re here. It gives me great comfort to know that I’ve reached just one of you. That it’s not too late.”
I shifted on the stool. “Actually, I haven’t come to talk about myself. I’m hoping you can help me find a missing person.”
“A missing person? I don’t understand.” Peggy did a quick look-see at the door, as if to make certain she’d closed it. Then she took a step forward, her hands clasped. “Who are you trying to find?”
Obviously, her receptionist hadn’t mentioned to her that I’d asked about Sarah. Or maybe she had and Peggy was purposefully avoiding the subject.
Suddenly uncomfortable, I shifted on the stool, unsure of how to do this. Lying to Peggy Martin didn’t feel right. So I said without further preamble, “I need to find a woman named Sarah Carter who used to waitress at Jugs until a couple weeks ago.”
“Why would you assume I’d know anything about this missing waitress?” Peggy’s expression remained benign, so I couldn’t read anything into it.
“I dropped by her apartment this morning, but she’d moved. The only address the manager had was this one . . . for the clinic, so I figured she was an employee or possibly a patient,” I plunged ahead, finding myself more discomfited with each word and not entirely sure why. But I didn’t back down. There was too much at stake. “So is she here?”
Blue Blood: A Debutante Dropout Mystery Page 17