Nowhere Safe

by Bush, Nancy

  “Maybe I will,” she said solemnly. She glanced at the time. It was after five.

  Fir Court was a dead end that went for several blocks and then jogged at an angle into the cul-de-sac. They drove past the old Kraxberger home, now owned by a family named Cordelle, according to the name on the mailbox, and then took a right into the cul-de-sac. The house toward the south, the Franco’s, had aging plastic play equipment in the backyard, faded from the elements, along with a swing set and slide.

  They chose it first. Wes knocked on the door and there was a sudden gallop of feet from inside and then a boy of about ten opened the door.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi,” September answered. “Is your mom, or dad, home?”

  “Mom’s upstairs. I’ll go get her. Mom!” he yelled, running back up the stairs he’d obviously just run down, leaving the door wide open.

  A few minutes later a woman rushed down, shooting a damning look up at her son. “Carl, the door!” she yelled in a reminding tone. Flustered, she asked September and Wes, “Yes?” Her hand was on the door as if she were about to slam it in their faces.

  September had had enough of that for one day. Pulling out her identification, she introduced Wes and herself, and asked, “Are you Mrs. Vasquez?”

  “Heavens, no. She moved away years ago. We rented the place from the Francos after her. I’m Karen Webster. Did she—why are you looking for her?”

  “Do you know her new address?” September asked.

  “No, but she moved to the east side of the river. Still has her business, though, I think. Calls it Tiny Tots Care.”

  “You don’t know why she moved, do you?” September tried.

  “She didn’t like that mailman. That’s what the owners of the house told me. Left right before he killed himself.”

  “Mom!” came from up above.

  “She left the play structures behind and that’s what sold us on this place,” Karen said. Then, “What, Carl?”

  “Come upstairs now!”

  Ignoring him, she asked, “Is there some problem with her?”

  “No. Thank you,” September said, and she and Wes left as Carl yelled, “Right now, Mom!” and Karen Webster shut the door, but not before they heard her scream, “Just hold your horses!”

  Wes asked September, “What now?”

  “It’s after six. I don’t have time to go to the east side and find Mrs. Vasquez. I have to meet Maharis.”

  “I’ll drop you off at your car and look into Tiny Tots Care.”

  September nodded. “Marnie Dramur and LeeAnn Walters live a couple of blocks over on Candlewood, the same street as the Bernsteins.”

  “You want to stop in?”

  What she wanted to do was get to the hospital, but she could see her time slipping away. Maybe it was better, anyway. Once she got these interviews out of the way, she could go to the hospital and stay all night, if they let her. “Hell, we’re here. Maharis can wait,” she said.

  Wes quickly drove to the first house—the Walters’—but no one was home. The Dramurs’ home was around the corner and the lights were on, so they parked in front of the modest ranch style house with its wrought iron fence and walked up the drive together. Once again, Wes knocked on the door. It took a while before it was opened by a harried woman wiping her hands on a towel.

  “Yes?” she asked suspiciously, then held the hand with the towel to her chest in surprise when she realized they were officers.

  “Are you Marnie Dramur?”

  “Y-e-e-s-s-s . . .”

  September explained that they were looking into Christopher Ballonni’s death and brought up Rhoda Bernstein’s complaint against him. Marnie’s lips tightened in disapproval. “I never agreed with Rhoda. She told you that, didn’t she? She always thought her Missy was so perfect that no man could look at her without desiring her, and my God, she was just a kid. It was sick. Ask LeeAnn about Rhoda, if you don’t believe me. LeeAnn Walters. Lives right around there.” She pointed to the corner they’d just driven around. “She’ll tell you.” She pressed her lips together. “Chris Ballonni was our mailman for years. Rhoda made that complaint and then he committed suicide. What does that tell you?”

  “We don’t believe it was a suicide,” Wes said, and she gave him the elevator eyes, assessing him.

  “There was a similar staging of the crime last week,” September said.

  “I saw that, but you know, you just give somebody an idea, and the next thing you know, they’re doing it, too.” She sniffed.

  “Evidence suggests the same person is responsible for both crimes,” September said.

  “What are you saying? That Christopher Ballonni was murdered?” She looked from Wes to September as if they were both bonkers.

  “We’ve already spoken to a family named Kraxberger who lived along your route and whose daughter was inappropriately approached by Ballonni. We believe he was targeting girls, not boys.”

  “You’re saying Rhoda Bernstein was right?”

  “Could you think of anything, any other girl who might have lived along the route and who may have been approached by Ballonni?” she asked.

  “Oh, God. Oh, God. No. There was—I don’t know anyone. I just know LeeAnn and . . . well . . . we have boys, so . . . no.” She paused, wrapping and unwrapping the towel over her hands. “But there was that day care, of sorts, I suppose.”

  “Tiny Tots Care. Run by Mrs. Vasquez?” September asked.

  “You know it. Yes. But she moved a while back.” She shook her head. “Oh, God, is that why?”

  “Not that we know of,” September said truthfully.

  “Oh, my God,” she said again.

  “Thank you,” Wes said, effectively cutting her off.

  They left her standing at the door, watching them walk across the street and get into Wes’s Range Rover again. He drove September to her car and then they said good-bye to each other and he went back into the station. For a moment September debated on taking a quick trip to the hospital but it was almost six already, so she texted Maharis and said she was on her way, then called the hospital again to learn if there was any change, which there wasn’t.

  Depressed, she arrived at Gulliver’s at six-thirty to find that Maharis hadn’t showed yet. The bar was fairly quiet with only a few patrons leftover from happy hour. When September entered she watched several departing customers pat the suit of armor by the door—a tradition for good luck—and she did the same, touching the knight’s cool metal visor. She could use some good luck and so could Jake.

  Sidling up to the bar, she dropped her messenger bag on the smooth, laminated wood surface. Her gun was inside the bag, not at her hip, but her ID was in her pocket and she flipped it out for the woman bartender to see.

  “I’m looking for Mark,” September told her.

  “Bartender Mark or Waiter Mark?” she asked.

  “Bartender Mark.”

  “He’s around.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Probably on break. I’ll go find him after I serve these people.”

  These people were a man and woman sitting at the bar, facing each other and rubbing each other’s thighs. The bartender handed them each a drink, what looked like a cosmo for her and a glass of straight Glenfiddich for him, then she lifted up a section of the bar and turned through a door into the kitchen area. A few minutes later a serious young man came out to where September was standing and introduced himself as Mark Newsome as she showed him her identification.

  “I remember you,” he said, looking past her. “You came in with your partner and talked to Mark Withecomb about Emmy Decatur.”

  “Waiter Mark.”

  “Yeah, Waiter Mark.”

  “I have a new partner.” September answered his unspoken question. “He’s on his way.”

  “Did you want Withecomb?”

  “Actually I wanted to talk to you. You were working last Thursday night?”

  “Oh, yeah. Wenches Night. We all were. It’s fucking nuts around here o
n Thursdays.” Hearing himself, he said, “Sorry.”

  “That’s all right. A young woman who was dropped off here on Thursday is missing. Gillian Palmiter?”

  “Jilly?” He looked stricken.

  “You know her?”

  “She’s a regular on Wenches Night. Dresses the part.” He made a face. “She’s one of the vodka whores.”

  “Vodka whores,” September repeated.

  “Girls looking for a guy to buy them a few drinks. Sometimes they go home with them. More often than not it’s the same group of guys.”

  “I heard she has a number of boyfriends.”

  “I guess you could call them that.”

  “Was she with her group of guys on Thursday?” September asked.

  “I think she left with Tom. He’s one of her regulars. Drives a BMW.”

  At that moment Blake came through the front door. He glanced at the suit of armor suspiciously before walking up to September and Mark.

  Mark said, “You’re the cop who called me?”

  He nodded and introduced himself, “Officer Maharis.”

  September noticed how he scrupulously kept from calling himself a detective. She remembered those days. Wanting it so badly, wondering if it would ever happen.

  Blake asked, “So where are we?”

  “He remembers Jilly,” September said, then filled him in on the “vodka whore” label and that it looked as if she’d gone home with someone she knew named Tom.

  “Thomas Eskar,” Maharis said. “I just talked with him. That’s why I’m late. He took her to his place but she was puking and he left her in the car. She never came upstairs.”

  What a guy, September thought. By the look on Maharis’s’s face, he felt the same way.

  “He thought she might’ve come back here,” Maharis went on. They both looked at the bartender, who shook his head.

  “Mark.” The female bartender jerked her head to indicate the back of the bar where she stood.

  “I gotta get back to work,” Mark said to September and Blake.

  “Any of her other regulars talk to her that night?” September asked.

  “Nah. She was trolling.” He walked around and lifted the same section of bar the female bartender had and let himself in beside her, sidling around her as she refilled the drinks of the couple who couldn’t keep their hands off each other.

  Mark suddenly looked at September as if he’d had an epiphany.

  “What?” she asked.

  “There was this older guy. In his late forties, maybe. Jilly was coming on to him pretty hard and he was going for it, buying her drinks, thinking he was going to get lucky. I warned him off her. Kinda to protect them both. I don’t know.” He shrugged and shook his head as if in wonder at his own altruistic motivations. “Anyway, he left and then she hooked up with Tom and a few hours later she went out with him.”

  “Know anything about this older guy?” September asked.

  “Never seen him before.”

  “What did he look like?” Blake asked.

  “Hungry,” he said after a moment. “Jilly was really laying on the ‘little girl’ bit. Calling him ‘Daddy,’ shit like that.”

  “I mean his physical appearance,” Blake said officiously.

  “Wait.” September cut in. “What else did she do?”

  “Uh . . .” Mark caught a glare from his coworker and lifted a finger to September and Maharis as he poured the impatient guy at the end of the bar a draft beer. When he was finished he came back and said, “Jilly’s legal, okay? Twenty-one. I’ve seen the ID and it’s hers. But she looks like five years younger. Ten years. I don’t know. She’s proud of it. Likes to play little girl with guys and some of ’em get all hot and bothered and just go ape-shit. Her regulars don’t care. But this guy liked it. Wanted a big slice of Jilly pie. That’s kinda why I warned him off her. I told him she was with lots of guys and he got all pruny and left.”

  “Pruny?” Maharis asked.

  “Disgusted. Left in a hurry like he could pick up a disease just being around her.”

  “Physical appearance?” he asked again.

  “Light brown hair. Big smile, but fake-like. I guess you’d say he was decent looking. Kinda reminded me of that actor.”

  “George Clooney?” the female bartender suggested. She hadn’t appeared to be paying attention but she’d apparently been avidly listening in.

  “Nah. I know his name. . . .” He struggled, but couldn’t come up with it.

  This older guy liking the little girl act set off warning bells in September’s head. “Did he pay by credit card?” September asked hopefully.

  “Nah. Cash. I remember because he was careful with it. Some guys just don’t want to part with a dime even when they’re paying with big bills. He wanted Jilly to think he was loaded.” He shook his head. “That’s all I got.” Then he snapped his fingers. “Kevin Costner. Like in Dances with Wolves.”

  September thanked him, then she and Blake headed outside into a dark, crisp night, the rain having let up and left pinpoints of stars peeking through scudding clouds. There were several cornstalks outside the front door but one of the jack-o’-lanterns that had clearly once been a part of the tableau was now smashed into mushy orange pieces against the nearest curb.

  “What do you think?” Blake asked her.

  “The last anybody saw her was when Tom left her in his car.”

  “The guy calls himself Thomas. He corrected me.”

  “Well, naturally,” September muttered. “Because he’s so goddamned proper that he’d leave his girlfriend out in the car, puking.”

  “Didn’t sound like she was such a great girlfriend,” Blake said.

  “Don’t be an asshole,” September warned him.

  He looked at her in surprise, then added insult to injury by saying, “Everyone told me you were the nice one.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t believe them,” September stated flatly. Gretchen’s reputation as a bitch preceded her. She’d come by the label honestly, but September was starting to think it wasn’t such an awful moniker after all. Maybe channeling her inner bitch might not be that bad an idea. “We’re not here to judge Jilly. We’re here to find out what happened to her.”

  Somewhat chastened, Maharis said, “You think this Costner look-alike’s got something to do with it?”

  “Chase down the other boyfriends and recheck with Thomas. Find out if anyone saw Jilly after he left her in the car. Make sure he did leave her in the car and he’s not lying about that. See if there are cameras around.”

  “Okay.”

  “I don’t know if the Costner guy has anything to do with it or not, but maybe,” September mused.

  “You gonna run with that, then?” he asked her.

  “Yeah, I’ll see what I can do. Maybe he trolls other bars.”

  Or maybe I’m just too sensitive to the issue, she thought, which reminded her to put a call in to March, which she did as she walked to her car. The line rang and rang and when her brother’s voice asked her to leave a message, she said, “Hey, March, it’s September. I know Verna’s at the house and July told me that the memorial service for Stefan is coming up on Wednesday. I’ll be there, but I’d like to talk to you beforehand. Call me back when you get a chance. Bye.”

  She clicked off and climbed into her Pilot.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  By the time September got to the hospital it was after eight. She’d done a pretty good job of pushing her deepest fears aside while she was working, but now, walking through the hallways of the hospital, smelling the underlying odors of astringents and cleaning supplies and maybe even sickness, she could feel her anxiety return as if she’d suddenly opened a box and released it.

  “Pandora’s box,” she muttered.

  Her steps slowed as she drew close to Jake’s room, and for one moment she sent up a desperate prayer for him to be all right. Auggie had texted her earlier, wanting to know how she was doing, but she hadn’t responded. She hadn
’t wanted to stop and allow herself to think.

  But she could no longer escape from her new reality.

  Pushing open the door, she stopped short upon seeing the woman sitting in the chair, her head bent forward in abject misery. September had seen the same thing in Verna after Stefan died. Hearing her enter, the woman’s head lifted and she stared at September through dull eyes.

  “You’re her,” she said. At the same moment September thought: Loni’s mother.

  “Mrs. Cheever,” she greeted her.

  Marilyn Cheever swiveled her eyes toward Jake and said in a voice dry with grief, “I’m so sorry. . . .”

  Lucky woke up in the dark on Tuesday morning feeling chilled. Outside her bedroom window there were no hummingbirds. It was still too dark for them to be flitting about but she felt they wouldn’t be there anyway, that they might feel, as she did, the need to scatter and hide.

  She’d packed up all her belongings and stowed them in her car the night before. Now she turned on her light, stripped the bed and threw the sheets in the washer, then she ran wet wipes over all the furniture in both her bedroom and bathroom. She glanced around the garage and saw that all of Mr. Blue’s jars and tins and boxes had been moved. The place was empty and smelled stale and only the faintest hint remained of the musky, earthy odors that had permeated the air, nothing anyone would be able to discern.

  She hadn’t seen Mr. Blue the night before. He’d been in his rooms. He and she had said their good-byes already, so maybe he just wanted her to go.

  Taking the box of wet wipes into the kitchen with her, she switched on the interior lights and blinked against the sudden brilliance. She was about to scrub down the table, cabinets, and counters, but was arrested by the sight that met her eyes. In the center of the table was a box containing items from Mr. Blue’s vast supply, a cornucopia of drugs and herbs and exotic extras with a note that read: You may need these.

  Picking up one particular bag, Lucky stared through the plastic at the dried item within. The wheels in her mind started turning. Quickly, she gathered up the box and stowed it in the trunk of her car along with the thermos that she’d used to tote sweet dreams.