The Second Girl

by David Swinson

  “Be right back,” I say, and exit quickly.

  The bathroom is empty. There are two stalls. I take the end stall, against a wall. I close the lid on the toilet seat, examine it briefly to make sure it’s clean, and then sit on it.

  “Fuck,” I say to myself. Close my eyes.

  Eyes still closed, I pull out my pill container.

  I usually have more self-control during the daytime, especially when I’m doing something for Costello. I just need a boost so I can clear my head.

  So that’s what I do, but this time I snort three capsules.

  After I flush the toilet a second time, I push my nostrils shut one at a time and sniff hard.

  It’s like a wide stream rushing in my head converging to a point and then swirling like ripples. Immediate clarity. I believe this is how I’m supposed to feel naturally, how all of us are meant to feel all the time, but that feeling was taken from us.

  I walk out of the stall, check my nose in the mirror to make sure it’s clean. A couple more sniffs and I exit.

  I walk back into the office and a few steps past the doors to the conference room to a counter that has a coffee machine and a sink and a small built-in refrigerator underneath. I grab a can of soda from the fridge and walk back to the conference room. I take a swig and then enter.

  “Didn’t mean to take so long,” I say, and then sit back down.

  I look at the notebook again and the lone name at the top of the page. I pick up my pen and write the date above the name.

  October 16.

  Twenty-five

  Ian grabs two five-by-seven photographs of his daughter from his briefcase and stretches his arm over the table to hand them to me.

  The first one is a head shot.

  “That’s her school photograph,” Mrs. Gregory says.

  She’s smiling. Her shoulder-length brown hair is nicely combed and folds over her ears, covering the sides of her neck. Her eyes are light blue in color, like her mother’s.

  I look at the other photograph. She’s standing on a brick patio, screened-in porch behind her, and wearing that same smile.

  She’s a pretty girl, and the smiles seem genuine, like smiles kids are supposed to have. But I’m not a good judge of things like that. For all I know, there’s something hidden there.

  I set the photos on the table beside my notebook and then finish off my soda. I hold in a burp and it becomes a hiccup instead.

  “Excuse me,” I say.

  I look at the notes I’ve taken thus far, most of them basic investigatory stuff—names and contact information of friends, known hangouts, and hobbies. Surprisingly, they seem to know a lot about their daughter. They even had a prepared list of contact information for her friends. Most of the parents I dealt with when I was a cop had given up on their kids shortly after the kids learned how to walk.

  When I was a uniformed officer, we were always called to take missing persons reports. It was nearly an everyday occurrence. Most of us used to dread the calls, especially if the case involved a child. A detective was called to the scene after a brief interview with the parents. First thing we did was a walk-through of the house and surrounding area. Most of the time, after spending a couple hours on the scene, the kid was located, usually somewhere else they weren’t supposed to be. There were also those dreaded times, after exhausting all efforts, when we had to make the call for the watch commander to respond. After that, the Missing Persons Unit was notified and a command center was set up. Those usually turned into cases like this. Damn, I felt bad for those detectives who caught cases like that, ’cause you knew it wasn’t going to turn out well. Most of them end up like this one, where the parents never know. Sometimes a body is found. As awful as that must be, at least those parents were given closure.

  There’s nothing I can tell the Gregorys that they haven’t heard before. One thing I know they haven’t heard yet is how bad it really looks—the chances that they’ll ever see their daughter again. That’s one of the reasons I decided, when I made the decision I was gonna go for my PI license, that I would not work missing persons. By the time a PI gets hired for something like this, it’s usually too late. The case is cold as hell, even damn near freezing. I can’t tell these folks all that. Shit, what kinda person would that make me? Hell, I feel even worse having to take their money.

  “My fee is forty dollars an hour, plus gas and incidentals. I have to be honest with you. Something like this is probably gonna take a lot of hours, and incidentals can include anything from paying for information to travel expenses.”

  They look at each other, but don’t have to talk. That bond over time where the slightest expression or something in the eyes can replace words.

  “Whatever it takes,” Ian says.

  “All right, but I’m going to be straight with you. I’ll work it through next week. If I don’t come up with anything by then, more than likely I never will. I want you to be ready for that.”

  She looks at him like before, but he doesn’t turn to her this time. He doesn’t want to read her face. He simply nods.

  “Just a couple more things, then.”

  I hand each of them my business card.

  “All my contact information is on there. Leslie Costello simply did a favor by introducing us. She’s an attorney and has nothing to do with what I do. I only work for her on occasion. So there’s no need for you to contact her, all right?”

  “We understand, and tell her it’s appreciated,” he says.

  “I’ll need to visit your home and go through her room, her belongings, if that’s okay.”

  “The detectives in Fairfax County already did that, but yes, that would be fine.”

  “Did the detectives take anything?”

  “No, they didn’t.”

  “A girl’s appearance can be changed—”

  “Are you suggesting she ran away?” Mrs. Gregory interrupts.

  “I’m not suggesting anything, Mrs. Gregory. Please let me finish. Does she have any birthmarks, scars, moles, anything that can help me identify her other than these pictures?

  “She has a birthmark on her right outer thigh. It is light brown and small, but it looks like Australia.”

  “And you’re sure she wasn’t dating anyone?”

  “Yes, we are,” Ian says firmly. “She wasn’t allowed to date until seventeen.”

  “Did she go to the movies with friends, the mall, anything like that?”

  “Of course. We weren’t that strict,” he tells me. “And the friends she went with are on the list we gave you.”

  “Now, please, just bear with me, because I have to ask these questions. I’m sure you’ve already been asked them. But I don’t see any boys’ names on this list. She didn’t have any friends that were boys? Doesn’t mean she had to be dating them, but she is a teenager, after all.”

  “To be honest, Detective Marr, there could have been. Maybe she didn’t tell us, but not because she was hiding something. Probably just because it wasn’t a big deal. I really don’t know.”

  That appears to affect him ’cause he seems like the type of man who needs to know, maybe even control, everything.

  “She’s a good girl,” Mrs. Gregory says, as if she’s trying to convince me.

  How do I respond to that?

  “Is Monday a good day for me to come by your home?”

  “I’ll be at work, but Elizabeth will be home.”

  “Around one p.m., then?” I ask Mrs. Gregory.

  “That’ll be fine,” he says for her.

  She nods accordingly.

  Leslie’s in her office plugging away at the computer. I remember all those days of nothin’ but writing. I don’t miss that shit.

  “Are they still here?” she asks.

  “No, we’re done.”

  “And…?”

  “And I guess I’ll see what I can do.”

  “That’s good. Good. I don’t have any cases that need an investigator right now, so I’m glad you’re taking thi
s on.”

  “Get me out of your hair for a while, huh?”

  “You know better.”

  I wish I did.

  “Then how about dinner tonight? On me.”

  She considers it, but I can’t read her so well right now.

  “It’s been a while, and I’m really craving oysters. We can hit the Old Ebbitt.”

  “Why not,” she says. “It’s going to be packed on a Saturday night, though.”

  “No need to worry about that. I’ve got my connections.”

  “Oh, I know you do.”

  “All right. Pick you up from your porch at around seven?”

  Her mouth turns up. She says, “My stoop.”

  First thing I need to do when I get home is tuck this shit I have stashed in my pocket out of reach, take a couple of Valiums, and try to nap.

  Home alone I have a tendency to binge, and the last thing I want is to get all wired up before the dinner. Once I start something like that, the next line is the only thing on my mind.

  I can do without for a bit of time as long as I know I have something to come back to. Doesn’t hurt sneaking a couple little lines here and there throughout the evening, ’cause that’ll balance me out. But I got to find a bit of sleep first and then a nice long, hot shower.

  When I get home I call a buddy of mine who works the bar at the Old Ebbitt. There was a time when I was a regular at the bar at the Old Ebbitt. Haven’t been there in a bit, but I always keep important numbers handy. He said he won’t be working tonight, but he’ll make sure they hold a booth for us in the main room.

  I strip down to my boxers and lie on the bed, on top of the covers.

  I close my eyes and try not to think about anything, especially the missing girl.

  Twenty-six

  Leslie’s wearing her faded leather jacket again. Also those black jeans I like so much. They hug her with meaning. So does the long-sleeve designer T-shirt with a scoop neck.

  The cool air is comfortable. Gotta love this time of year. Winter’s closing in, and hopefully bringing a bit of snow with it, but not so much that I can’t get around. Depending on the situation, though, that might not be so bad.

  I park a couple of blocks from the Old Ebbitt. The White House is in view across 15th Street, nicely lit up. We walk a block and then cross G Street and it’s a few steps more to the restaurant’s beautiful old revolving-door entrance. I see the small area inside jammed with people waiting to be seated.

  We nudge our way to the front booth, and when the hostess finds a second I give her my name. My boy came through, and after a couple of minutes, we’re escorted to a nice booth toward the back of the room. Leslie hangs her jacket on a hook attached to a post on the edge of the booth and we sit across from each other.

  When the waitress shows, we order a round of martinis and a dozen of the mix-and-match oysters. That’ll determine what we like best, and we’ll probably order another dozen after that. We’re both oyster junkies. Me most of all ’cause it’s a great source of protein with minimal effort. I could live on them.

  “It’s nice getting out like this. We haven’t done that in a while,” I say.

  “It is nice.”

  Our drinks arrive before the oysters.

  She lifts her martini glass, carefully holds it across the table toward me.

  “Cheers to a good idea, Frankie.”

  I lift mine and we clink glasses, but only spill a little. I want to tell her to take it easy on the drinks tonight ’cause she’s such a lightweight, and well, you know…I might have bad intentions.

  Halfway through the martinis, the plate of oysters shows. I don’t hesitate, and neither does she. I dab a bit of horseradish on a small plump one and stab it with a little fork, lift it out of the half shell. A single bite and then I let it slide down. Leslie tilts her half shell back and slurps it in. Without a doubt, it looks a hell of a lot better the way she does it.

  There’s a fine, demure look on her after, a kind of smile but not one meant for me. Something like being brought back to a pleasant memory.

  She sips her martini, peeks at me over the glass.

  “You miss the job, don’t you?” she asks as if she knows it’s something I’ve been thinking about.

  “Yeah, sometimes, but it wasn’t the same a couple years after you left. The new mayor messed everything up.”

  “A change in regime can do that.”

  “Tell me about it. The focus changed with it. It was all about making the quick hits, build up the stats. Started not being so fun anymore. What about you? You miss it?”

  “I miss certain aspects of the job. I liked working patrol.”

  “You were a good officer, but you had another mission in life.”

  “I did, but I didn’t realize it until I became an officer and went back to school.”

  “And everyone that knew you just thought you were using the department to work your way through college.”

  “And they were right. But I didn’t know where it was going to lead. You know that.”

  I nod because I do know. That’s why I respect her.

  “I always thought I would just make rank. Slowly climb the ladder,” she continues.

  “Yeah, I remember. You would’ve made a good commander eventually.”

  “No, that position is too political. I would have settled down at lieutenant.”

  “Smart girl.”

  She takes down another oyster, her lips moist with brine after, and her eyes seem to grow larger.

  It doesn’t take long to get through a dozen oysters. I manage to get the attention of our busy waitress, and we order another dozen. I down my martini and order another one of those. Leslie’s still nursing what she has left.

  “I’ll have another, too,” she says.

  “Take it easy, champ. You know how that goes to your head,” I tease.

  “I’m not the lightweight you think I am.”

  “You were tougher when you were a cop and hit these spots on a regular basis with us.”

  “You saying I’m not tough anymore?”

  “Just when it comes to liquor, maybe not so much.”

  “It’s called a healthy lifestyle, Frankie. Makes me tougher than you think.”

  “You’ll outlive me, then.”

  “Don’t say things like that. I need you around.”

  If only I knew what she really meant by that.

  We drive with the windows down on the way back to her home. The temperature has dropped, but only slightly.

  I turn onto her block. Before I pull to the front of her house, she asks, “Do you want to find a parking space?”

  Twenty-seven

  It takes a moment before I realize where I am.

  Leslie’s under the covers beside me, sleeping on her side with her back toward me. Her arm is tucked over the top cover, nuzzling it close to her face. The side of her breast is only partly exposed and a paler shade of ivory than the skin on her forearms.

  The curtains are open. It’s barely light outside. A large holly tree with its waxy green leaves and red fall/winter berries obstructs the view to her neighbor’s house and vice versa. But I still want to close the curtain.

  Once I’m up, I’m up.

  I didn’t sleep all that long, but I slept hard. Haven’t done that in a while. Costello’s better than having to down a couple of Klonopins with some Jameson.

  I don’t want to wake her and I don’t want to go home, so I lie on my back and roll to my side so I can look at her some more.

  How her delicate neck curves into her shoulder.

  Twenty-eight

  Sunday rolled by like nothin’, and I’m already looking forward to the next time. But who the hell knows when that’ll come. Just her.

  It rained most of the day, too, which made matters worse, ’cause after I left Costello’s house at about 11 a.m., I spent the afternoon and most of the night on a monstrous binge.

  Hard Monday morning.

  Fall wind’s howlin
g outside my window.

  I sit on the sofa to have my coffee and go over the notes from my interview with the Gregorys. I have a couple of hours before I have to be at their house. I figure I’d better get some phone calls done, try to set up interviews with Miriam’s friends from the list, and call Amanda’s family, see if I can get in to talk with her.

  I’ve broken just about every rule there is to break in the so-called PI code, but I need to be careful about stepping on toes with respect to Amanda’s investigation. I had dealings with PIs when I was a cop, and I have to say, they pissed me off more than once. Normally I couldn’t give a shit, but I like Davidson, and Luna’s a real friend.

  I curl over the pages of my notes to a fresh page and mark the date and time.

  My first call’s to Davidson to let him know I got hired by the family of the missing girl. We talk for a bit. He’s not concerned, actually figured I would get hired, but it’s a different matter when I tell him I’ll be contacting Amanda’s family to set up an interview.

  “You want to be careful about talking to her,” he tells me. “She’s a victim in an ongoing federal investigation.”

  “Yeah, and the last thing I’ll be talking about is your investigation, so no need to worry. All I want to do is show her a photo of Miriam Gregory and see if she knows her.”

  “I’m not going to say don’t do it. Just know the edge, Frankie.”

  Yeah, he can say “don’t do it,” but that won’t stop me. I wouldn’t be breaking any rules, either, just making enemies. I’ve been hired to investigate a case, and she’s my only lead right now. He can make things tough on me if he wants, but it doesn’t sound like he’s trying to do that. It’s always been helpful that I’m a retired cop. Now, if boys like Davidson knew I was forced into retirement, that would be entirely a different matter. I’d be through, an addict, another waste.

  So for the sake of courtesy and cooperation, I tell him, “Understood, buddy. No worries there.”

  “And if you get any information I can use, you’ll call me, right?”

  “Of course.”