by Trish Reeb
His mind rewound to the conversation between Mary Winter and the parent with the missing daughter. Could this woman’s story be the ranting of a drunk or had a crime element in the city begun preying on their children? A number of years ago, a rash of rapes, targeting teenage girls on their way to and from school, permeated the city. Private citizens voluntarily kept watch over students and vacant houses in which the attacks occurred. City officials met with parents to discuss ways to keep their children safe. The combined effort had paid off.
"When did you last hear from your boy?" Cole asked.
"He called, left a message about a mont' ago." She hiccupped. "Sorry," she said, putting fingers with chipped and broken nails to her dry lips.
A month? Where the hell had she been? On a binge most likely. "How long has he been missing?"
She shrugged. "Don’t know for sure."
"How old is he?"
"He fourteen."
A baby. "He say where he’s imprisoned?" Cole asked.
Her bloodshot eyes blinked. "Don’t remember nothing else."
Cole wanted to shake the woman, tell her to get off the booze, and start parenting. It wouldn’t do anything but spur a lawsuit into motion.
"I’ll try to hurry things along." He went over to one of the intake workers. "Hey, Gladys, can you get this one next?"
"Sure, sugar," she said, her big cheeks puffing in a smile.
"Let me know if any more reports like hers surface." He smiled. "Thanks."
On his way out, Cole stopped at the front desk, knocking on the counter. "Hey, Donaldson, you hear of a teen suicide recently? Happened early Saturday morning."
"Wasn’t on duty. Talk to Pendleton," he said, barely looking up from the paperwork in front of him.
"Thanks." Cole didn’t take his lack of cordiality personally. Overweight and arthritic, the sergeant scowled his way toward retirement.
The file probably got buried on the desk of whichever D handled the case. Until he identified that person, he could do nothing more for now. Cole called it a night and headed home.
Too late for personal phone calls by the time he arrived, he also postponed sleep. With all he’d learned that day, he’d be burning the midnight oil.
CHAPTER 31
Tuesday, February 13
The next day, keeping to the speed limit, Alex zoomed along the expressway ahead of rush hour traffic. The cloudy sky promised another gloomy day. She arrived at her usual time, six forty-five, and wound her way through the empty halls to her office. With the exception of the engineer powering up the boiler and the kitchen staff making breakfast to power up the students, few people showed much before seven-thirty.
Alex hung her coat on the rack, steadying its wobble, and opened the file drawer, shoving her purse inside. Rooting through her handbag, she pulled out her cell phone to check for missed calls. A text awaited. Curious, she pushed the access key. A message appeared from an unknown caller.
rd he dangerous look out
Alex read the words. Read them again. What did they mean? Who was rd? Who sent the text? It had to be someone who knew her cell number, right? But Gino and Taryn were her only text mates. And, of course, it couldn't be . . . . She shook off the rest of the thought. Did the person mean it as a clue, a riddle, or a warning? Perhaps, all three. She sat down heavily in her chair, the questions striking her like pellets, each trying to outdo the other for her attention. Cole told her to contact him if anything came up. She glanced at her Movado watch. Seven o’clock, too early to call.
Back to the message. Did rd stand for a name or someone’s initials? Arjay, her student aide and valedictorian of the senior class, had been christened RJ. He legally changed his name in middle school using phonetics to create an actual moniker. Family and friends called Bobbi’s husband TJ even though his parents named him Terrence James.
She ran a finger down the staff list taped to the lower right hand corner of the desk. Only Robert Dunlap, English curriculum leader, fit the bill. Mild mannered, he seemed as dangerous as a newborn. Still, she could link him to Taryn. He’d been her immediate boss.
After saving the text and stowing the phone in her purse, she booted up her computer to check the school’s database. Rd could be one of Lincoln High’s students. If she believed the texter—that rd was dangerous—he wouldn’t fall into the category of upstanding student. A reasonable assumption, she figured. With that in mind, she concentrated on those with poor grades and attendance, whittling thirteen names to four after checking transcripts. She completed passes for each one. Later, she’d send for them in class, though they’d probably be hanging in the halls, if in school at all.
What if she could break the case wide open? Imagine Cole’s surprise when she handed him the name of the killer on a silver platter. I like being a mo—
A rap on the door. Alex jumped. She folded the list in half and shoved the slips inside, out of sight. "Who is it?"
"Martindale."
She sidestepped the desk and opened the door.
Sauntering into her office, he had the George Clooney thing going on, in need of a shave and looking very sexy.
"This look familiar?"
"What?" Alex’s head came back to the moment. She gaped at what he held in his hand, her heart swelling. "Well, what do ya know? Whipped cream on shit!"
"What’s that supposed to mean?" Martindale asked.
She hadn't meant to say it aloud. "Nothing."
"Girl, what?"
"First, tell me how you happened on it," she said, gesturing at her handbag.
"A kid found it in the parking lot," Martindale said, giving it to her.
Alex opened the purse and wrenched out her wallet, checking each compartment. The money had been taken, no big surprise. The spaces where her debit and credit cards belonged had also been emptied. Guilt and anxiety settled in her gut. She hadn’t notified the creditors. You know what? I’ve been a little bit distracted lately, she snapped at her conscience.
Oh-h-h. Her heart lifted at the sight of her driver’s license still tucked behind the plastic shield. Yesterday, thinking about the hassle of replacing it evoked fatigue. "I didn’t think I’d ever see this again. Thanks." She held it out to him. "Shouldn’t it be checked for prints?"
"Already done."
"And?"
Martindale shrugged. "Dunno. Cops took it. Cops returned it. Didn’t tell me one way or another. I’m not exactly in the loop." He smiled. "I’m ready for your explanation now."
"About what?"
"Whipped cream."
Alex shrugged. "Something a guy once said to me on the golf course."
Martindale leaned against the desk, his arms folded.
"Okay. Ever play golf?" she asked.
He shook his head. "I used to like watching Tiger Woods."
"Then I guess you’ll understand." She laughed. "I sunk over a twenty foot putt on a par four."
"That's a hell of a putt. So what?"
"That's the whipped cream. The shit part is my score. An eight on a par four."
Martindale laughed.
Alex sighed. "Too busy beating up on myself to appreciate its essence at the time. When you recovered my purse, I totally got it."
Martindale cast a scrutinizing stare. "You okay?"
Was he referring to yesterday, the assault, or Taryn’s death? It didn’t matter. Her answer would be the same. She nodded. "You?"
He stared at her.
"I know about you and Taryn."
A spasm scurried across his face. "Figured."
She cocked her head. "Don’t you wonder?"
His face hardened. "Every minute of every day."
"Thanks again for yesterday." She winced slightly. "Vertigo."
"My pleasure." Martindale moved to leave. "Be careful now, you hear?"
The first bell rang.
Her eyes followed him out of the suite. Alex rummaged through the purse for her favorite lipstick she hadn't even used yet. She removed the top. The dark pi
nk tip was still round, smooth, intact. In the bottom of the handbag, she found the cellophane-wrapped cigar given to her weeks ago by a dashing Lothario—his idea of foreplay in the game of relationship roulette. That night had been the last time she and Taryn had been out on the town. She lobbed the thing into the trash. Alex rooted through the rest of the items in her purse before stashing it in the file cabinet next to its replacement. Though the vintage handbag had been passed around like public property, it had been a gift from Taryn and far too precious to toss.
After canceling her credit cards and requesting new ones, her work ethic called her back to the job. In between visits from students needing everything from a roll of toilet tissue, a pass to class, a mediation between two friends, and a student calling home, she searched for a suicide specialist online to conduct an inservice for staff. Few offered consultants. Those who did required a fee. Money the school didn't have. It would be the counselors' and social workers' responsibility to develop a plan of action if they decided to address the issue. She typed a proposal for Mary Winter to approve.
On her way to the main office, Alex marched over to a cluster of laughing boys and girls.
"Let’s get to class," she said.
In unison, they jumped and scattered. Odd. Usually she had to prod, cajole, or threaten detention to get them moving.
Receiving no response from behind Mary Winter’s closed door, Alex left the proposal in the administrator’s mailbox. She opened hers and regarded the stuffed-to-the-brim box. Removing the contents turned into a tug of war with the mailbox almost winning. The huge mass finally broke free propelling her backward into the arms of Mr. Small, AKA The Bus.
He placed her solidly on her feet. "You okay, T?" he asked, bending to recover the mail that had fallen to the floor.
Alex laughed. "Excellent timing. Thanks."
Back in her office, she sifted through the pile.
"Ms. T, anything you want me to do?" Arjay asked.
Alex handed him the four green slips.
He shuffled through them, a habit of his, before setting off on the mission. "Ronald Dunn, Renaldo Donaldson, Reggie Davis . . . Yo, Ms. T, these names all have the same initials."
She inwardly cringed. "Do they? I hadn’t noticed."
He threw her a dubious look, and something else she couldn’t identify, and left the office.
"Do you have your pass?" Alex called.
He waved the white slip in the air.
Okay, smarty-pants, what are you going to say to these kids when you’re face to face? she asked herself. What would she say? Well, she’d cross that dilemma when she came to it. Alex tackled the mail instead, tossing the junk, replacing outdated catalogs for new, and keeping the post secondary educational material for the bulletin board in the reception area. She set aside several sealed white envelopes, probably sympathy cards, to read later in private. Expecting a notice of an upcoming event or a directive from an administrator, Alex flipped open a tri-folded business letter.
As she read, a cold stream of air snaked up her spine.
CHAPTER 32
Alex dropped the paper. It landed on the desktop flipping closed as if the folds had memory. She stole to her office door and browsed the waiting room. No students there to see her. Closing the door and ensconced in her office, she planted herself in her chair. She gripped the paper with trembling hands. Slowly, she flicked the top tri-fold open. Then the bottom. The warning, written in red letters of all shades and sizes, seemed to leap off the white paper.
YOUR BLOOD AND THE BLOOD OF YOUR BRETHREN
WILL STAIN THE SOIL OF THE LAND.
Alex laid a hand on her heart as if touching it would still the tempo. Her mouth dry, she could barely swallow. Her second message of the day and she had no clue who sent either one. What kinship did they share, either with each other or to the case? Had rd written the Shakespearean-like message? Maybe she underestimated him. She’d presumed dangerous meant a street thug who never attended class. Assumptions often turned out to be wrong and unreliable. Rd could be in the Honors Program for all she knew. Or maybe one of Taryn’s drama club students. Omigod, they’d been rehearsing Shakespeare's Macbeth.
She headed for the main office.
"Ms. T, how can I help you?" Ms. Evans asked, more accommodating than usual.
"Is there any way to protect our mailboxes?" Like maybe removing our names?
"I’m not sure what you mean?"
"To keep parents, students, or staff members from having access to them."
"Well, they aren’t sup-pose-d to," Ms. Evans said.
"Did anyone ask you to put anything in my box?"
Ms. Evans looked at her as if she'd lost her mind. "I don't recall that kind of request." She turned to ask the other secretaries. Shaking their heads, they stared at Alex with the same odd expression.
"So my mailbox is available to whoever might want to invade it." Alex gave her an annoyed look. "Isn’t that what you’re saying?"
"Is something wrong, dear?"
Alex pivoted on her heel and left.
Arjay stood by her office when she returned to the counseling suite. He'd returned alone. She unlocked the door and they went inside.
"Dr. Pearson confiscated the slips. Said you weren’t s'posed to send me to get students." He clenched his fists. "She got all in my grill, madder than a mug."
Dr. Pearson? Great! She picked a fine time to leave her den. "Sorry you got into trouble."
He drew closer to the desk. "It’s a nickname," he said softly.
She stared at him.
"RD."
Of course he’d figured it out. She could deny the whole thing, but Arjay wasn't stupid. Lying would only insult his intelligence and make her look foolish.
Arjay glanced behind him. He lowered his voice, "Redd Dog."
Redd Dog? "Do you know his given name?"
He shrugged. "Only know the dude by RD or Redd Dog."
"Thanks."
"I don’t trust him," he said quietly. Raising his hand, he backed away. "Watch your back." He turned and left the office.
"Arjay, wait."
He didn't stop or look back.
Redd Dog. Well, at least she had a name. She opened the paper again, examining it this time with detective eyes. Each red letter had been meticulously cut out. How many magazines had he riffled through for the right letters to spell the message? She pictured a laughing hyena’s head atop Edward Scissorhands’ body, utilizing his ready-made tools to create, not bushes in the shape of animals, but malicious messages. Her wrist tingled. She scratched at it.
Well, if he intended to frighten her off, the composer had another think coming. Warmth rushed to her cheeks. How dare he try to scare the crap out of me? She ripped the paper into shreds and tossed the pieces into the wastebasket.
Her eyes found the clock in the reception area. She gasped. If she didn’t hurry, she’d miss Jada’s funeral.
CHAPTER 33
Alex sat through most of the funeral with her head in a fog. Why bother to come? You're here for Mrs. Davison and Jada, she reminded herself. She shifted in her half seat, crossing and uncrossing her ankles, trying to ignore the mammoth thighs pressing against her on one side and a diaper bag jabbing into her hip on the other. Next to her, a baby slept soundly on his mother’s shoulder. With no place to put her purse, she stuck it on the floor and booted it under the pew in front of her.
Alex scoured the church, craning her neck. Mercedes, where are you? She had to be here. How could she miss it? Nothing would prevent Alex from attending Taryn’s funeral.
After the last mourner finished speaking and announced the hymn, the minister led his congregation out singing Count Your Blessings. The pews emptied one at a time joining the exodus. Alex flashed an encouraging smile to Mrs. Davison when she passed with her family, including her ex-husband and his girlfriend. How gauche of him to bring her, the jerk. Three staff members came behind them. Science teacher Ayn Goldstein, as thin as her dean of student
s' husband was wide, glanced away. Next came math teacher Narkeasha Rutu, a transplant from Nigeria. Her thick accent often threw kids off track making a tough subject more challenging. Her eyes conveyed a mixture of sympathy and pity. Last of the trio, Trina Lopez, taught French. Born in Argentina, but raised in France, she migrated to the United States at fifteen and quickly ditched the accent in favor of sounding more like her peers. Ms. Lopez stared at Alex with an expression she couldn’t translate. Alex tried to keep the women in sight as she waited for her pew's turn, but lost them in the crowd. She followed the queue into the vestibule, surveying the congregation for her co-workers. But they'd disappeared. They'd seen her, why hadn't they waited?
Alex stepped outside. The wind had escalated. She snuggled into her long coat, pulling the hood over her head. Everyone scurried to their cars. Scanning the parking lot, she noticed Mrs. Davison climbing into the back of a limousine idling behind the hearse. The embrace and condolences Alex planned to deliver would have to wait.
She headed in the direction of her car. Because she’d been late, she’d had to park on a side street, a very long block from the church. When she arrived, she had assumed the cars along the street belonged to other church-goers, but no one joined her as she trekked to her SUV.
Having worked in the city for years, Alex had never been intimidated, as long as she took precautions. Meaning, she didn't make a practice of roving streets in unfamiliar neighborhoods. Fear nipped at her heels accelerating her pace. At the same time, she tried to remain calm. She’d heard muggers tend to avoid people with moxie, but that probably didn’t include a young woman walking alone and out of her domain, no matter how confident she appeared. Up ahead, she could make out her Cadillac shoe-horned between two clunkers.
Footsteps, coming fast, crunched on the snow-covered sidewalk behind her. Afraid to turn around, she scanned the houses for one that might welcome a stranger. Just in case. Her body tensing, she reached for her shoulder to grab her handbag, the only weapon available. Oh crap, she'd left it under the pew. She had nothing to ward off a mugger, or reward his efforts. Didn’t some thieves kill their victims just for failing to provide valuables? What should she do? Run? Scream?