She greets me with a smile and says, “Come in, Mr. Marr.”
“Thank you, I don’t want to take up too much of your time.”
The small home can’t be more than eight hundred square feet. I walk through a little foyer that leads into a living room area and a smaller connected dining room with a round table and four wooden chairs. She keeps it tidy. The living room is sparsely furnished—a love seat with two mismatched armchairs at each end, and a glass-top coffee table.
“Have a seat. I’ll get the paperwork.”
I sit on the armchair with faded floral patterns. She walks through the dining room and into the kitchen, returns shortly thereafter with a few papers and hands them to me.
Loan documents.
“So, you said I won’t be responsible for having to make any more loan payments?”
“Yes. It’s a service provided for families in need. It’ll all be taken care of, and once Lenny gets out, he’ll resume the payments with no added interest. Really, nothing for you to worry about.”
“That’s such a blessing.”
“Please keep this between you and Lenny. It’s not something that is offered to everyone, and I’d rather the word not get out. If you ever have any additional questions, you just call me. Don’t bother Ms. Costello.”
I grab a business card out of the inner sleeve pocket of my jacket and hand it to her. She looks at it briefly, then sets it on the glass-top table.
“This is all legal, right?”
“Of course it is. What would make you think otherwise, Mrs. Claypole?”
“I’m sorry. I’m just used to—”
“I’ll take care of everything, so you don’t have to worry. After today, it shouldn’t even be a discussion.”
“Okay.”
“I will need to park the truck in the garage, though.”
“That’s usually where he kept it parked, anyway, because he didn’t want the toolbox broken into. I always park in the driveway.”
“We’ll take care of that on the way out.”
I glance over the loan documents.
“Desta Used Cars.”
It’s from one of those questionable corner-lot used-car dealerships that probably has a small lot with about thirty cars, and a trailer for an office. Spots like this one are all over DC and Maryland, and are usually the only place a person like Lenny could go to get a vehicle with no credit and a few hundred dollars down. The interest is outrageous, but I don’t see anywhere in the document that there’s a penalty for paying off the loan early. He already owes a couple hundred more than the eight grand, though. I got some walking-around money on me, so that won’t be a problem.
After I manage to squeeze the truck into the tiny garage, Theresa Claypole gets in my car and directs me to the dealership. I was pretty much spot-on about the dealership. It takes up a corner lot, surrounded by a chain-link fence that’s over six feet in height. A small mobile office trailer is across from where the used cars are parked.
The sign bearing their name, Desta Used Cars, is a large canvas banner stretching across the chain-link fence to the left of the open gate. A smaller banner is on the right side of the gate and it reads: “We Buy Used Cars for Cash $$$.”
I back into a curb parking spot between two cars, near the entrance. I grab my briefcase and exit. We walk to the trailer and enter.
A thin, dark-skinned, and well-groomed man is sitting behind a small wooden desk cluttered with papers and an older-model desktop computer. He stands to greet us. The suit he’s wearing isn’t cut right for his small frame and looks like one of those suits you’d buy at a designer knockoff spot on M Street.
“How can I help you?” he says with a heavy accent—more than likely Ethiopian. “You need a car today?”
“Not today,” I advise him. “I’m here to pay off a car for an associate of mine.”
“Please, sit down.”
He directs us with an open hand to two chairs in front of his desk, and then he seats himself. I pull out a chair for Theresa and then for myself. I unshoulder my briefcase and set it on my lap. I open it, pull out the paperwork, and set it on his desk for him to look at.
“Yes, Mr. Clapoh,” he says.
“Claypole,” I correct him.
“Yes, I remember him well. A very nice Ford 250. You are his associate in construction, I’m assuming?”
“This is his wife here. According to the paperwork, he owes a balance of eight thousand two hundred thirty-one dollars. I’m assuming cash won’t be a problem?”
He examines the paperwork more closely, as if he wants to double-check the amount.
“Yes, that is correct, but there is also a penalty charge to pay off the vehicle early.”
“It doesn’t state that anywhere in the paperwork.”
“It’s a part of the agreement, as spoken to Mr. Clapoh. You can call him to verify if you wish.”
“No, I don’t need to call him. If it’s not written down, then it doesn’t mean shit.”
“There’s no need to be foul, sir.”
“I haven’t begun.”
“Sir, the balance to pay in order for me to release the title will be…” He taps some numbers on a calculator beside the computer keyboard. “That will come to an additional three thousand two hundred ninety-two dollars, making it eleven thousand five hundred twenty-three dollars and forty cents.”
“What?” Theresa bursts out.
I smile calmly and turn to her.
“Why don’t you take a look at some of the cars out there, Mrs. Claypole?”
She looks at me briefly, then shoots the Ethiopian a hard glare and walks out.
I stand up and pull the wad of money out of my briefcase and drop it on his desk. I take my wallet from my back pants pocket, open it in a way that reveals a portion of my badge. I make sure he can see it. I take out some more money and count an additional two hundred forty dollars and place that next to the eight grand.
“That’s eight thousand two hundred forty dollars. Don’t worry about the change. Look at it, then look at me. Do I look like someone you’re gonna fuck with?”
“This is a business, sir.”
“You the owner?”
“Yes. You also never gave me your name, sir.”
“What you are trying to pull is illegal in this fucking country. You’d be wise to take the true amount owed, ’cause if the next thing outta your mouth isn’t ‘Let me get the title,’ then I’m gonna make one call to a good friend of mine who’ll show up with a police team to check every fucking VIN, hidden VIN, and even engine-part number of every fucking car on this lot. After that, they’ll come in here and go through all your paperwork and you’d better pray everything’s in order, which I seriously doubt, ’cause when they get done, it won’t be a matter of paying off a few fines. You will be looking at jail time.”
“I am too much an American citizen! I have rights.”
“You got rights, but the police don’t need a search warrant to do a spot check on a dealership, especially after I get done telling my friend the kinda loan scam you’re trying to pull on me, and more than likely have gotten away with on other occasions.”
“You cannot threaten me like this, sir. I’m going to call the police.”
“What are you, a fucking dope? What do you think I’m about to do? You go on, call them. I can use the uniforms that arrive to secure the premises before the detective I’m gonna call gets here. Save me a lot of time, you shady little motherfucker. You think I’m playing? I’m about to fuck your life up.”
I pull out my phone to make a call.
He stands straight out of his chair, as if he’s ready to salute me.
“Sir, please, I think we can arrange something.”
Twenty-three
I got lucky with the Ethiopian. He’s dirty, but if he had only worked shady loan deals he’d have called me on it. I wasn’t bluffing, though. I do have a friend who works with an auto-theft task force and deals with these fly-by-night dea
lerships. These places get into everything from re-VINing stolen cars to selling thirty-day-temp tags to drug boys. The tags alone are big business. So, yeah, he was into something, but I still took a chance, ’cause the last thing I would’ve wanted was my guy coming down there on a favor and then me having to explain why I’m paying off an eight-thousand-dollar loan for a felon, and all of it in cash. That would’ve been a good story.
When I drop Theresa off at her home, I tell her that I’ll be holding on to the title until Lenny gets out of jail. That it’s a procedural thing. Truth is, I want to make sure the truck is still around when he gets out of jail. She seems nice enough and supportive. Maybe she’ll wait for him, but then maybe she won’t. The truck’s an easy couple thousand if she decides not to.
On the way back to DC, I give Davidson a call.
He picks up after the fourth ring. “What’s up, Frankie?”
“Wanted to give you a heads-up about a meeting I’m heading to at Costello’s office.”
“Don’t tell me another teenage girl’s there?”
“Nothing like that. Just meeting with the family of another one that’s missing.”
“What does Costello have to do with that? And you, for that matter?”
“Mother and father of another missing teenager, I think from the same school, reached out to the family of the little girl I got outta the house on Kenyon. They gave them Costello’s number and called her for help, specifically my help. Costello said when they called she gave them your number. You ever get a call?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. I took all their information, including the name of the detectives they were working with in Fairfax County. Best we can do is put her on our radar, but I didn’t tell them that. I feel bad for them.”
“Costello felt bad for them, too.”
“What about you?” I hear Davidson say. For once I don’t know what to say.
“Listen. I wish I could do more, but we don’t work missing children either, just crimes against children, and she’s missing out of Virginia, not DC.”
“So was that little girl I got.”
“Whole different scenario.”
“Sounds to me like it might turn into the same scenario.”
“I know what you’re saying, Frankie, but right now she’s a missing teenager from another jurisdiction. We don’t pick up cases like that. Even if it was reported in DC, that still goes to Youth Division and Missing Persons, not us. We’re a specialized unit, mostly dealing with pedophiles and Internet crimes against children.”
“I haven’t been off the department so long that I don’t know that, Scott. I also know your task force picks up cases all over the country. I was just thinking there’s more than likely a connection between the two girls and that’s sweet media shit for your Fed supervisor. That’s why he wanted the other case in the first place, right?”
“It’s always something like that, but mostly it was easy because you did all the work.”
“I didn’t do anything on that except get lucky.”
“It was all set up for us, though. Easy pickings after that. But keep me in the loop with this one. If there’s anything I can do, you know I will.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I’ll talk to you later, bro.”
“All right.”
When I get to Costello’s building, I use the hallway bathroom outside her office to snort the contents of a capsule; then I slap a bit of cold water on my face, dry off with paper towels, and walk out with something like a smile.
I open the door to the small reception area. Leah isn’t at her desk, and I remember that it’s Saturday.
I walk into Costello’s office. She’s typing on the laptop’s keyboard while looking at the screen. She stops when I enter, slides the wireless mouse along the pad, and double-clicks.
“Don’t expect me to thank you for showing up, because all this is your doing.”
“Jeez, and I thought all that was behind us.”
“This is a law firm, Frankie. A very small, but very busy law firm. Not a PI agency. I have two devastated parents sitting in the conference room, thinking I can help them find their missing daughter. And I can’t act as their liaison between the DC police and you. Yes, I’m pissed off, because there’s nothing I can do other than introduce them to you and then stay the hell out of it.”
“Well, you’ve done your part, then.”
“Now you’re being snide.”
I wanna say, “No, but I’m beginning to think I should’ve fucked you last night.” But I have a feeling that would make matters worse. So instead I say, “Don’t mean to sound that way. Let me go in and talk to them, see what I can do.”
“I’ll be here.” Before I exit she adds, “I can’t imagine what they must be going through. I wish I could do more.”
“You’ve done more than enough. I’ll get with you in a few.”
I walk out, feeling a little less smiley.
Twenty-four
They’re sitting at the other end of the conference table. I close the door behind me. The husband stands. He looks like he’s around my age—early to mid-forties. He’s wearing a nice gray wool suit with expensive-looking brown leather oxford wingtips. There’s a briefcase on the floor beside his chair. I walk toward him and he extends his arm to shake. It’s a firm handshake.
“Ian Gregory,” he says.
“Frank Marr,” I return.
His wife barely sits up to offer her hand. Stress is evident in her face.
I take her hand.
“I’m Elizabeth.” She barely smiles.
“Why don’t we sit down,” I say.
He takes his seat. She seems to just float back into hers.
I unshoulder my briefcase and set it beside the chair I sit in.
“Do you work in the city, Mr. Gregory?”
“Just Ian, please. I work at the Pentagon. Private contractor.”
“And Mrs. Gregory?”
“I’m a stay-at-home mother.”
He reaches over, takes her hand, and they clasp their hands together to rest on her lap.
“So you got in touch with Ms. Costello through Amanda’s family?”
He has to think for a moment.
“Amanda, the little girl that was found,” I remind him.
“Yes, yes, of course. The detective we’ve been working with in Fairfax County came to our home. He asked if our daughter knew her because they went to the same school.”
“What is your daughter’s name?”
“Miriam,” he says.
I pull out a fresh legal pad notebook from my briefcase, take my pen out of my shirt pocket, and write down her full name.
“How old is she?”
“Sixteen,” he says.
“How long has she been missing?”
“Since July ninth. She said she was going to the community pool with friends. We later found out she never did.”
Mrs. Gregory’s head drops and she begins to cry. I notice him squeeze her hand again.
“What was she wearing when she went to the pool?”
“Shorts and a T-shirt,” he says. “She has a pink pool bag and would always change into her suit in the locker room.”
“Her purple sparkly flip-flops. She was wearing those, too,” Mrs. Gregory adds.
“Did she go there with anybody?”
“No. She walked alone, but she said she was meeting friends there. She didn’t say who,” Ian says, and then as if an afterthought adds, “I don’t know why I didn’t ask.”
“Does she have a cell phone?”
“Yes, she has an iPhone,” he says, then seems to struggle with a thought. “The battery must have, you know—or maybe it somehow broke. We still keep the account active just in case.”
“iPhones have an app to locate the phone if it’s lost. Was your daughter’s set up for that?”
“No, it wasn’t,” he says as if embarrassed.
“How long ago did it stop working?”
“It rang for a week or so after she had disappeared—even went into voicemail, and then a few days later it went out completely.”
“Does she have any brothers, sisters…?”
“Little brother. Lucas. He’s ten.”
“Does Miriam know Amanda?”
“We’ve never heard her name mentioned before. The detective showed us a picture, but we didn’t recognize her. Miriam might have known her from school or through other friends, but she wasn’t a good friend or we would have known.”
“Did the detective share any other information with you?”
“No. He said he’d be in touch if anything new developed. We have a pretty tight community. I was able to locate her family. They only lived a few blocks away. That’s how we found out about you and Ms. Costello and this other detective with a task force here, but he wasn’t very helpful, either.”
“You still have the family’s contact information?”
“Yes, but I assumed you would?”
“No, it didn’t work out like that. I’ll need their contact information.”
“I should have it here,” he says, reaching for his briefcase.
He pulls out a small notepad, flips through pages.
“Here it is,” he says, handing the pad to me.
I write the names Arthur and Louise Meyer in my notes, along with their address and landline, and Arthur Meyer’s cell number.
I look at my notebook and see “Miriam Gregory” written in the top left corner. I realize the mistake I made. It’s like I’ve made it official that I’ll be investigating this. Not only was it my line of questioning, but I pulled out my notebook to take notes. In fact, writing the name first is worst of all. The only thing that minimizes that fact is that I didn’t put a date above the name. I fucked up.
“I should’ve asked—you want something to drink: soda, water…? They have a nice coffee machine if you’d like coffee.”
“No, thank you,” Ian says.
His wife shakes her head, looks like she wants to leave.
“I really need a soda. Do you mind?”
“Of course not,” Ian says.
I stand and begin to walk, but remember my briefcase. I grab it.
The Second Girl Page 9