The Burial Place

by Larry Enmon

  Frank didn’t look up but continued cleaning his pants. “Let it go.”

  The bad blood between Frank and Big Mike had started years earlier when they’d worked Missing Persons. After months of trying to find a missing five-year-old boy, Mike had finally given up, written “Closed—Unsolved” on the case paperwork, and moved on. Looked like a child custody thing gone bad. After reviewing the reports, the sergeant had assigned the two-month-old case to Frank, the new guy on the squad. Rumor had it he was sharp.

  On the third day, after an all-night, one-man surveillance, Frank had strolled in with the father in handcuffs and the boy in tow. Mike had never forgiven him the humiliation.

  Rob eyed Big Mike. Being a couple of inches taller than Frank wasn’t the only problem. He also outweighed him by sixty pounds. He was dumb as a post, but that didn’t matter if he got his hands on you.

  “You should slap that bastard silly,” Rob murmured.

  “Just let it go.” Frank stood and threw a twenty on the bar. “Lunch is on me.”

  As they ambled past, Mike’s weasel eyes watched them from the bar mirror. Rob made a point of flipping him off while Frank held the door.

  Rob paused outside and pulled out a Copenhagen tin and thumped the lid twice. The sound of a mower around the corner and the smell of fresh-cut grass mixed with the scent of snuff as he stuffed a pinch of it in his lower lip. “So, ready to go to the girl’s apartment?”

  Frank brushed his pants. “Yeah, but I need to change first. My new place isn’t far from here.” He headed for the car.

  Rob dusted the loose Copenhagen off his fingers. “I haven’t seen your new place. Like it?”

  “Lots more room. Yeah, it’s nice.”

  Rob spat on the ground and wiped his lips.

  Frank took a step back from the spatter. “That’s the nastiest stuff in the world. Can’t believe you’re still hooked.”

  Rob hit the key fob, and the car unlocked. “I’m not hooked. I’ve quit dozens of times. So where’s your new place?”

  “Off McKinney. I’ll direct you.”

  “McKinney, huh? Sounds expensive.”

  Frank didn’t answer except to give him the address. When they pulled up, Frank pointed to the guest parking area and Rob wheeled into a space. Strolling to the front door, Rob craned his neck to eye the top of the twenty-story building. The doorman, dressed in a suit and name tag, stepped outside and held the door for them.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Pierce.”

  Frank nodded. “Good afternoon, Ralph.”

  They strolled through the plush wood-paneled lobby past another similarly dressed man seated behind the reception desk. He nodded. “Mr. Pierce.” At that moment, Rob wouldn’t have been surprised if the man had whipped out a silver tray with a pyramid of warm finger towels. Never figured Frank could afford a place this nice.

  “Hello, Jerry,” Frank said.

  They rode the elevator to the top floor and hung a right down the lushly carpeted passageway. Frank unlocked the door and stepped in.

  Rob froze as he entered, staring at the wall of windows overlooking downtown. “Holy shit.”

  Frank unbuckled his belt and wandered down a dark hall. “Like it?”

  Rob eased in and closed the door. “I’ll say.”

  “I won’t be a minute. Make yourself at home.”

  Rob ambled to the ten-by-thirty-foot glass wall and took in the sights. It was a perfect location for a loft. To his left stood a bookcase. Painted white, like the rest of the room, it was head high and ran the length of the wall, all the way to the corridor. He strolled past rows of books, his fingers brushing titles. Nothing was organized, except maybe in Frank’s mind. There were hundreds of books, on every topic: A History of the English-Speaking Peoples, A Random Walk Down Wall Street, World Religions: An Introduction. There were books on literature, art, music appreciation, cooking, and science. His fingers paused over a spine and he pulled the book from the shelf. Basic Quantum Mechanics?

  He put the book back and entered the kitchen—and what a kitchen. Frank’s stint as a professional chef had definitely influenced his choice in appliances. A Vulcan stainless steel six-burner gas range nestled between two dark-brown granite counter tops. A matching double-door refrigerator stood beside a similar freezer. The kitchen was painted in an earth-tone brown faux finish. An enormous cutting-block island was the centerpiece.

  The kitchen, bookcase, and windows wrapped around a giant living area containing only a green fabric sofa and end table situated to take in either the panoramic view or the fifty-two-inch wall-mounted TV. A single book lay on the arm of the sofa—The Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

  Frank marched back in, slipping on his jacket. “Okay, let’s get going.” He’d changed into an identical pair of Dockers.

  Rob put his Styrofoam spit cup on the counter. “I just have one question.” He spread his arms out to the sides, palms down, as if he was steadying himself.

  “Don’t drop that nasty thing in this house.” Frank pointed to the spit cup.

  Rob ignored him. “Just one question.”

  Frank kept walking. “What?”

  Rob screamed, “Are you on the frigging take, or what?” He motioned in all directions.

  Frank shook his head and grinned. “No, I’m still playing straight.”

  “I can’t afford all this, and we make the exact same salary.”

  Frank opened the door. “Come on. I’ll tell you on the way.”

  5

  As they pulled out on McKinney and headed for the girl’s apartment, Frank called a lady friend and confirmed their dinner date that night. He hung up and got comfortable in his usual slouch in the passenger seat. No one spoke for ten minutes.

  Soon they were cruising through a trendy area of Dallas near Southern Methodist University. Several old apartment complexes had discovered gold in renovating and re-leasing at twice the price to students. A big racket, but since most of SMU’s students attended school on their parents’ dime, who was harmed? As Rob drove by yet another perfectly manicured lawn, the question about Frank’s new digs finally popped out of his mouth.

  “So, are you going to tell me, or what?”

  Frank exhaled. “On my fortieth birthday, my trust money was finally released.”

  “Trust? You had a trust?”

  “Yeah, my grandparents set it up when I was a kid.”

  “So, were they loaded?”

  “Nope, just owned a big ranch in central Florida—lot of it swamp land.”

  “Sold it, huh?”

  “Yeah, to an amusement park.”

  “Wait a minute. Are you saying Disney World is your grandparents’ old ranch?” Rob wheeled into the apartment parking lot.

  Frank laughed as he grabbed the door handle. “Disney World? Don’t be ridiculous … it was Universal Studios that bought their place.” He slid from the seat.

  “No shit?”

  They climbed the stairs. Frank pulled out the paper Dora had given them with the apartment number scrawled across it. He nodded to the left and Rob followed him.

  Rob eyed his partner, wondering if he really knew him at all. “How many books do you have? Hundreds?”

  “A little over two thousand. I keep the overflow in my home office.”

  “You read them all?”

  Frank kept walking but shook his head. “Not a one—just have them to impress guests.”

  “Smartass cracker. I never knew you read so much.”

  “I read a lot.” Frank knocked on apartment 203. “Hope she answers. It’ll be our shortest case in history.” He knocked again, but no one came to the door. Shaking the key from the envelope, he slipped it into the lock and twisted the doorknob. No chain caught the door, and he swung it wide open.

  “Police officers. We’re coming in.”

  They strolled inside and looked around the dark apartment. Frank flicked on a wall switch.

  “Not bad for a college kid. Pretty good housekeeper,”
Rob mumbled.

  Frank scratched the front of his neck and surveyed the room. “I’ll take the bedroom and bath, and you do the living room and kitchen.” Without another word, he marched toward the bedroom. Rob realized Frank sensed something—he had this thing. Whenever they strolled into a crime scene and Frank scratched his neck, something bothered him on a subconscious level. Of course, Frank had so many peculiarities, it might be nothing more than an itch.

  * * *

  The bedroom door stood open, a sheer bra draped over the doorknob. On the way past, Frank rubbed a cup with thumb and index finger. An old, disturbing thought tickled his spine. He flipped the strap over: 36C. The living room looked nice, but the bedroom needed work. Clothes, college books, and curlers lay more or less where they had been dropped days ago. He went through all the drawers, stuck his head in the closet, and searched under the bed.

  He glanced at a calendar on the nightstand. The disturbing tickle again raced up his back. Frank strolled back down the hall and flipped on the bathroom light. He searched the cabinets. A light whiff of floral perfume still lingered in the air. The prickle kept bugging him.

  A minute later Rob stuck his head around the corner. “Anything?”

  “Nope. You?”

  “The most exciting thing I found was this dime bag of grass.” Rob dangled the plastic Ziploc.

  Frank opened it and sniffed. “Not bad.” He emptied it in the commode and flushed, tossing the empty bag in the trash. “Ready to go?”

  Rob shrugged and sauntered toward the door. Frank followed but hesitated at the threshold. That’s when it hit him. He went back to the girl’s nightstand and picked up the calendar a second time. She had lunches, professor conferences, and dates for tests penciled in. She’d already missed several appointments.

  Frank marched back into the bath and stared at the counter.

  Rob stuck his head in. “What’s wrong?”

  Frank pointed at the items that lined the counter. “Look.”

  Rob tilted his head to one side and pursed his lips. “What?”

  “The makeup.” Frank met eyes with Rob. “Everything’s still here.”

  Rob didn’t answer.

  Frank waved his hand across the counter. “Face wash, lipstick, lotions…”

  Rob shrugged. “Probably has an extra set of everything.”

  “Yeah, probably,” Frank whispered. “But if she planned to be gone for longer than a weekend…” It still didn’t feel right.

  Frank slipped past Rob and went back to the bedroom. It was a little messy, but she was organized—disciplined. Perhaps she acted immature around Mom and Dad, but she had her act together. This girl hadn’t planned on not returning. She’d scheduled things she’d already missed. Only taken the bare necessities for a weekend stay.

  Something unplanned happened.

  “What?” Rob asked.

  Frank meandered back into the living area. “Everybody has it all wrong,” he whispered. He stared at Rob. “She’s not hiding. Someone took her.”

  Rob eyed him. “You serious? How do you know that?”

  Frank let out a breath. “I just know.” The evidence all around him was giving him a completely different picture of the “flaky teenage girl” he’d heard about in Edna’s office. But even if he hadn’t had that, his gut would have told him. He operated on gut and instinct more than most cops. When he got to a certain point in an investigation, he just knew if there was any meat on it. Sometimes it took days to determine, sometimes only hours. Rob trusted him enough to seldom quiz for reasons.

  By the time Rob parked in the employee garage, it was pushing five. Frank opened the passenger door, his mind still on his abduction theory, and grabbed a manila folder he’d tossed on the floorboard. “I have to fax this stuff to the credit card folks and AT&T. Why don’t you split? I’ll report in to Edna and Terry.”

  Rob shook his head. “No way. You’re the one with the date. I’ll do it.”

  “You go look after Carmen. My date isn’t until eight o’clock. I’m fixing her dinner at my place.”

  Rob winked. “See ya tomorrow.”

  Frank had real trepidation about sharing his suspicions with Terry. It wasn’t as if Terry would make fun of him. That wasn’t his style. But Frank had no hard evidence to support his theory except makeup and a few missed appointments. Terry was a no-nonsense guy who worked with facts, not feelings.

  When Frank strolled into CIU, it was practically deserted. He scouted the place and found Terry and Edna talking in her office. Ignoring them, he stopped at the fax and scribbled out a cover sheet to AT&T Security, requesting them to locate the girl’s phone. They would track its proximity to the nearest cell tower and give a good location. He pressed the send button and filled out the second cover sheet to MasterCard Security.

  “Any luck?” Terry asked from behind.

  Frank dropped the page into the fax machine and hit send. “Nope. We interviewed Ms. Mayor and gave the girl’s place the once-over. Nothing.”

  Terry nodded. “I’ll tell Edna.”

  Frank wandered back to his desk and ran a criminal history check on the boyfriend, Ruiz. The guy came back clean—not even a parking ticket. Frank called Ruiz’s cell number and got his voice mail. After leaving a message to return his call, Frank meandered around the office several minutes thinking about how to explain his suspicions. He finally stuck his head into Terry’s office.

  Terry was back at his desk. “Was there something else?”

  Frank glanced over his shoulder before strolling in. “I don’t think the girl’s hiding.”

  Terry’s expression darkened and he slowly stood. “What did you find? You said there was nothing there.”

  “Gut feeling.”

  Terry’s brow relaxed. “I see. What do you think? Was she taken from the apartment?”

  “No, nothing like that. No sign of it, anyway. I don’t believe she made it home.”

  Terry strolled to Frank’s side and spoke in a low voice. “Have you discussed this with anyone?”

  “Just Rob.”

  “Okay, we’ll keep it between us boys until we have concrete evidence.”

  Frank nodded and turned to leave.

  “Hey,” Terry called.

  Frank glanced over his shoulder.

  Terry stood with his hands together, rubbing the knuckles, a sign he was worried.

  “I hope you’re wrong.”

  6

  They were in her room again—the ones calling themselves Sister Ruth and Sister Judy. Katrina sat at the small table spooning down bland wheat cereal flavored with honey and fresh strawberries. Yesterday, when she’d asked them if they were nuns, Sister Ruth had laughed.

  “No, my dear,” she’d corrected. “We’re sisters in Christ.”

  That confused Katrina more. The two women refused to answer her basic questions about where she was, who they were, and who’d brought her there. They smiled and assured her she’d understand in time and not to worry.

  That worried Katrina. If these two knew what had happened and condoned it, they weren’t her friends. The problem was they were so sweet. Sister Ruth, the tall one, had long straight brown hair that hung to the middle of her back. It was tough to guess her age, but since she wore no makeup, the small wrinkles around her eyes and the corners of her mouth had no place to hide. Perhaps late thirties, early forties.

  Sister Judy looked about five years younger. Her long hair, always in a tight bun, was black. No one made a fashion statement in that kind of high-necked cotton dress, and neither wore a bra. Both women had deep Southern accents, Tennessee or maybe Alabama. They hummed or sang songs under their breath while they worked. Katrina recognized one song from her grandmother’s funeral the year before—“Amazing Grace.”

  Katrina ate slowly, examining her room as the women hummed and tidied. If this wasn’t a basement, it was certainly doing an excellent impression of one. The concrete-walled, windowless room was painted battleship gray, and the bare bul
b hung from a wooden ceiling. A large gas water heater, the size of a VW bug, sat in one corner. A small space heater hummed from the other, keeping the humidity and temperature perfect.

  The place had a familiar odor. She couldn’t place it at first, but as her mind cleared from the drugs, she knew she’d smelled it before. After her grandmother’s death, she’d helped her mother clear out some things from Granny’s house. They’d opened a timeworn trunk that hadn’t seen the light of day for fifty years. That was the smell of the basement—old.

  Footsteps and muffled voices drifted through the ceiling and she looked up, her spoon frozen halfway to her mouth. She’d seen no men since she’d arrived, but they were always close, coming in and out of the room above her, mixing their voices sometimes with the laughter of children or the crying of babies.

  Sisters Ruth and Judy cleaned, added fresh towels, and changed the sheets. The sink, toilet, and shower had the bare essentials. Ivory bath soap, some cheap, off-brand shampoo, toothpaste, and a toothbrush.

  Katrina put the spoon down and spoke for the first time that day. “Could you please leave me a razor?”

  Sister Ruth smiled. “Ladies don’t use razors here.”

  “What do you shave with?”

  “We don’t shave.”

  Katrina gawked at their legs, but the ankle-length dresses hid everything but their shoes.

  They finished, and Sister Judy laid a white cotton dress, panties, and fresh nightgown on the edge of the bed.

  “Here you go. We have some lovely new clothes for you.”

  Her calm demeanor relaxed Katrina. “Thank you.”

  Sister Ruth finished making the bed. She spread the multicolored quilt across the top, and as she straightened it, a quick movement of her hand caught Katrina’s attention. The woman had pushed something under the quilt and then smoothed it back into place.

  “Could I have a book?” Katrina asked.

  Sister Judy grinned. “Why child, you already have the best book you’ll ever read right here.” She held up the Bible from the nightstand.

  The ladies gathered the dirty clothes, sheets, and cleaning supplies and marched up the basement stairs. They locked the door and Katrina was alone again. She could only assume she’d been kidnapped by a bunch of religious zealots and taken to a health spa in California run by Daughters of the Confederacy. It really isn’t funny, Katrina. Just bizarre. Since her earliest memories, Katrina had always been taught to think of herself as special, a step above everybody else. A live-in nanny, the best private schools, the most expensive clothes. Nothing was too good for Daddy’s little girl. With the bat of an eyelid or one dimpled smile, she could get anything she wanted from the old man. And now she would trade all she had, or ever hoped to have, to be anywhere but here.