The Second Girl

by David Swinson

  “Yes.” This time she looks at her mother with an expression like she’s had enough.

  “What, honey?” her mother asks.

  “I don’t know those people, Mommy.”

  “If she says she doesn’t know them, then she doesn’t know them,” the mother tells me. “Who is this Edgar, anyway?”

  “He’s just a kid that goes to her school and is on another list I have. That’s all. I believe she doesn’t know him, but maybe your daughter can tell me if she knows about him?”

  After another reassuring tap on the shoulder from the mother, Carrie says, “He just hangs with the loser crowd is all.”

  “Kids that don’t study, kids that skip out on school, drink; what do you mean by losers?”

  “All of the above.”

  “Drugs?”

  “I don’t hang out with any of them.”

  “We’ve already established that, Carrie.”

  “I’ve heard they’re into pot, stuff like that.”

  “You’ve seen them smoking at your school?” the mother demands.

  “No, Mother. They’re just losers.”

  “Did Miriam hang with any of them ever?” I ask.

  “I saw her with one of the older boys before.”

  “But not Edgar?”

  “No. I told you I don’t even know what this Edgar looks like.”

  “What about the one you saw her hang out with? What does he look like?”

  “I don’t know. He’s just a boy.”

  “White kid, African-American? About how old?”

  “He’s white and I think he’s a junior.”

  “Describe him for me—hair, how tall he is.”

  “Brown hair. I don’t know how tall. Average, I guess.”

  “Does he drive?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And you’re telling the truth, Carrie? You don’t know these boys?” the mother asks with concern.

  “No! I don’t hang out with losers, Mom.”

  “Did you mention these losers to the police when they interviewed you?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “No, she didn’t,” the mother says angrily.

  “It’s okay, Carrie,” I try to comfort her. “Sometimes things come back to you later, things you may not have thought were important way back then. And that’s why I like to ask the same questions. So you did good.”

  She manages a meager smile, the kind of smile you might give a loser.

  Thirty-two

  I stop at the Chinese takeout on 11th Street and grab steamed chicken with vegetables and steamed white rice.

  I eat it when I get home. I cut up a nice grapefruit for dessert.

  I pour myself some Jameson, set up a nice pile of powder with a few lines beside it, and light a cigarette. I sit back on the sofa with Miriam’s yearbook. I go through it page by page, checking out every photograph and reading every inscription made by her friends. I find two boys with the first name Edgar.

  The first one’s a freshman. Edgar Rawlin. He doesn’t fit the profile. Too clean-cut, and when I first talked to Amanda she said Edgar took her to the Salvadorans’ house in DC. This guy’s too young to drive, but that doesn’t mean he won’t drive. Still, he doesn’t fit the bill.

  The second one is Edgar Soto, a junior. He’s a good-looking kid, the kinda face that might charm some of the younger girls. He’s got something he’s trying to grow on his chin to make him look tougher.

  I bookmark both Edgar pages with torn paper.

  I look at the photos of Miriam, the ones given to me by the parents.

  Such a pretty girl. Seems like she could do a lot better than a little punk like Edgar, if one of these is the Edgar I want.

  Damn, makes me glad I’m not a father. If I had a daughter, she’d be in a boarding school for girls. One of those schools with tall gates all around at least thirty miles from the closest town.

  Thirty-three

  I’ll be meeting with Amanda at four o’clock. I have some time so I decide to head up to 16th and Park, sit on it for a bit and see who’s out playing.

  I find a nice parking spot on the west side of 16th, about a quarter of a block up. I don’t see any of the regulars. Maybe it’s just the wrong time of day, or Davidson and his boys, and maybe Luna, have been hitting them hard. Might even be because Shiny and his crew were taken out of the picture and they were the only ones running the corner. If any of these are the case, then it’ll stay clear for a while, but not for long. Once things ease up, someone else will take control and be out there slingin’. Might just be the opportunity Cordell Holm was waiting for, unless he was already in control. Time will tell. I’ll stick around for a couple hours, see if anything transpires.

  I could walk around the neighborhood, show Miriam’s photo. There’s a few Latino-owned markets and restaurants all along Mount Pleasant Street; a short walk west of here there’s a community of people who’ve lived in this neighborhood for a long time. Showing her photo around would be an appropriate next step. But I don’t want to do that until I’ve exhausted everything else, especially until after I talk to Amanda and Edgar, if I can find him.

  It’s doubtful, but still possible, that if Miriam was abducted by the same crew that abducted Amanda, showing her photo around might get back to the wrong people, especially with all the crackheads, drunks, and thugs roaming this area. I honestly don’t believe those boys on Kenyon were acting alone. That house was more of a holding cell, the first stage in the process.

  If at one time Miriam was being held at that house, then she’s either been taken outta state to someplace like New York, forced into prostitution somewhere around here, or, Lord forbid, she’s dead. If it ever comes down to me having to hit the street, I have some sources I’d want to get with first.

  After a couple of hours of sitting, I’m satisfied that it’s a dead end for now.

  I drive south toward the 14th Street Bridge, where I’ll catch I-95 and make my way to Amanda’s home.

  Thirty-four

  Amanda Meyer’s home is in one of the newer communities of Burke. The homes are larger, with more siding, less brick, and even less land. Long stretches of wooded areas with creeks and aqueducts separate most of the communities around here; the Meyers’ neighborhood is on one side of such a wooded area, and the Gregory family is on the other. They’re close enough to be part of a larger community, but still far enough that school might be the only place they’d run into each other.

  Mrs. Meyer answers the door.

  She’s an attractive lady, with a welcoming smile.

  After I introduce myself, she greets me with an even more welcoming, but brief, hug. When I enter into the foyer, I am greeted again, but this time by Mr. Meyer and an unexpected, very long and uncomfortable hug.

  “Okay, okay, now,” I say after a couple seconds, and I try to tactfully break free after giving him a couple of pats on the back.

  He releases me. “So good to finally meet you.” He beams.

  I certainly didn’t expect this; with the exception of maybe Costello, but only on certain and very special occasions, I’m not the huggy-bear type.

  I’m invited into the den and offered a large leather recliner to sit in, as if Mr. Meyer would be honored if I took his spot. I thank him, but sit on a firmer armchair with green leaf patterns. I set my briefcase on the floor beside me.

  “Amanda is in her room,” says Mrs. Meyer. “I’ll go get her.”

  Mr. Meyer sits in the leather chair.

  “Would you like coffee or anything?” he asks.

  “I’m good, thank you.”

  “I can’t thank you enough.”

  “You have already,” I say. “How is your daughter doing?”

  “She’s seeing a psychiatrist. It’s terribly hard on her, but she’ll pull through.”

  “What little time I spent with her, I sensed she’s pretty tough.”

  “Yes, she is,” he says, and I see his eyes begin to tear. “Sorry.”
He wipes the tears away with the back of his large hand.

  “So I imagine the FBI has been here a few times to interview her?”

  “Yes, three times already. The first time with an agent who specializes in forensic interviewing of children.”

  I don’t have time to ask further questions, as Mrs. Meyer enters with Amanda.

  She’s wearing a long-sleeve pajama-type shirt so I can’t see the track marks, but there is still visible bruising on the bit of area I can see around her wrists. I stand and expect another hug, but instead she stretches out her hand. I offer mine for a gentle, polite handshake.

  She looks different, but without question, better. Still, something in her eyes shows me she’s been through hell. Drug abuse is something I know all too well. But it’s not something I’m fighting. I’m uniquely comfortable with my position in life. Unfortunately for Amanda, all the drugs they forced on her in a short period of time will be the least of her battles.

  “Good to see you, Amanda.”

  “You, too.” She smiles and then sits on a love seat, at the side closest to the chair I was sitting on.

  I sit back down.

  “I know you’ve heard this a few times already, but you’re going to get through this.”

  A slight smile.

  “So I imagine you’ve also had a ton of questions thrown at ya already, huh?”

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  “Well, I just have a few more. I’m sure you’ve been asked some of them before.”

  “Okay.”

  I turn to the parents. “Would you mind if I talked to Amanda alone? It’s not anything she can’t share with you later. It’s just easier to talk when the parents—”

  “We understand,” he interrupts.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  He throws a loving smile Amanda’s way, then stands.

  “We’ll be in the living room, sweetie,” the mother says, and they exit.

  Mr. Meyer closes the sliding doors, but not all the way. I can see them as they walk into the living room.

  “You’re not really a policeman,” she says directly.

  “No, but I used to be, and you know what they say: ‘Once a cop, always a cop.’”

  “But you don’t work for the police.”

  “Sometimes I do, but I wasn’t then. I’m a private investigator now. I’m sorry I lied to you, but I needed you to trust me then.”

  “I know. It’s okay.”

  “The important thing is you’re safe now, right?”

  She nods her head a couple of times.

  I’m not gonna question her about what she told the FBI. In connection to me, I mean. I gave Davidson a good story, and I’ll stick to that.

  “Did your parents tell you why I wanted to talk to you?”

  “Yes, about a missing girl.”

  “Yes. She’s from a neighboring community and went to the same school as you. I’m working for her family, trying to find her.”

  I unzip my briefcase, pull out my notebook and a case jacket I put together for Miriam Gregory. I open the file and take out the two photographs of her. I hand the head shot photo to Amanda and she takes it.

  “Do you know her?”

  “A policeman showed me another picture of her already.”

  “Yes, but I’m working for the family. What did you tell the policeman who showed you the picture?”

  “That I don’t know her, but I’ve seen her around.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “Last year at school. I don’t remember when exactly, just that it was around school. I never talked to her or anything like that.”

  “Do you know any of her friends?”

  “No. I don’t think so, anyway.”

  “Okay.” I take back the photo and slip it into the file.

  I reach into the briefcase and pull out the yearbook. I open it to the marked spot for the older Edgar. Edgar Soto.

  I hold it up with one hand and point to the photo. “What about him?”

  Several nods and then, “That’s Edgar.”

  Thirty-five

  This is the kid that introduced you to those boys in DC?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did the FBI show you a picture of him, too?”

  “Yes, it was a larger photograph, but looked like the same yearbook picture.”

  That means he wasn’t arrested; they couldn’t get a juvie arrest photo. But it also means they’re onto him and for all I know already picked him up and charged him with some shit like conspiracy. Once the police have him, it’ll be next to impossible to talk to him, unless he gets out on bond, which I seriously doubt. Judges usually don’t fuck around with these types of cases. And if he’s a smart boy, he’ll know better than to talk and more than likely will lawyer up right away. They usually set up debriefings, but those take time. My case will quickly turn from freezing cold to dry ice.

  “I’m sure they asked you all this before, but I have to ask some of the same questions. Do you know where Edgar lives?”

  “No. He never took me to his house.”

  Slick kid.

  “Did you ever communicate with him through social media or texting?”

  “No, I’d just see him at school.”

  “He drove you to DC, though. What kinda car does he drive?”

  “They asked me that, too. It’s light blue. I think like a new Camry or something. I always thought his parents were rich if they let him drive a car like that.”

  “You see him driving that car a lot?”

  My cell phone rings.

  “Hold on,” I say, and pull it out to look at it.

  Costello. I let it ring and go to voicemail. She’ll leave a message if it’s important.

  “About his car, did he drive it a lot?”

  “Yes. Sometimes he’d pick me up at the school bus stop and take me himself.”

  “Was anyone else with him when he picked you up?”

  “No.”

  “Any of his buddies here ever go to DC with the two of you?”

  “No. It was always just us.”

  “Did you ever hang out with him around here, someplace he liked to take you?”

  She hesitates.

  “It’s all right. That’s why I wanted to talk to you alone.”

  “He’d take me to this place off a path near South Run Park.”

  “You’d go smoke weed there and stuff?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does he hang out there a lot, maybe with some of his buddies?”

  “Yes. That’s where they would go to get high and sell their weed.”

  “What days and around what time do they go out there?”

  “It used to be every day right after school.”

  “You said it was a path. Where’d he park the car?”

  “At South Run Park, usually at the very far end of the parking lot.”

  “Why were you nervous to tell me that? Did you used to sell too?”

  “No, it’s not that.”

  “Then what?”

  “Because we did other things together.”

  “You and Edgar?”

  “Yes.”

  “You mean something more than just kissing?”

  “You swear you won’t tell my parents?”

  “That’s something I think you should tell them when you’re ready. I won’t. Did you tell the FBI or other detectives any of this?”

  “No. I’m sorry. Is that bad?”

  “No, because I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry. Where is this South Run Park?”

  “It’s off the parkway, right past Lee Chapel.”

  I turn my notepad to a blank sheet and hand it to her, along with a pen. “Can you draw a map, show me how to get to South Run and then the path?”

  Thirty-six

  I follow Amanda’s hand-drawn map, which does a good job of guiding me to the Fairfax County Parkway. I don’t like to use Google maps for certain things, especially shit like this, ’cause th
e information is definitely logged. You never know.

  It’s about five o’clock and the beginning of the rush-hour traffic, but traffic is going the opposite direction. I make the right turn and find South Run Park a short distance ahead on the right. I turn in and follow the road to the parking lot. The rec center is ahead on the left, but I keep right and drive to the other end of the lot, where it borders the wooded area. Several cars are parked in the lot, but none that fit the description of Edgar’s car. I park anyway. Before I can exit, my cell rings again.

  Costello.

  I answer with “What’s up?”

  “Did you get my message?” she asks coarsely, like she’s upset.

  “No, haven’t had time. I’m just finishing up in Virginia. Why?”

  “Fuck you, Frankie.”

  That throws me off.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you?” I ask.

  “I called Lenny Claypole’s wife earlier today—”

  Oh shit…

  “—to tell her about the sentencing date and a bit more about the plea offer. She thanked me for some kind of service I supposedly provided that paid off their car loan.”

  “Let me explain.”

  “Yes, you will explain, but let me finish. I talked to Lenny Claypole, and from what I could gather, it sounded a lot like the two of you came to some sort of arrangement that if you paid off his car debt he’d accept the plea. What the fuck are you thinking? Are you trying to get me disbarred?”

  “Of course not. You know better than—”

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do here.”

  “You’re going to do nothing.”

  “Do nothing? Are you on drugs?”

  That’s almost funny, ’cause I know it was just one of those statements only made in anger.

  She continues. “Do you realize what you’ve done? I don’t care what type of deal you think you have with my client. I’m his advocate. Do you know what that means? Damn.”

  “It won’t fuck anything up. Just let me explain.”

  “Do your best, Frankie.”

  “I told him you wanted me to look into everything again, see if we could possibly find something helpful for trial. When we were done and I knew we had nothing, that everything had been exhausted, I simply advised him, based on my experience, that it didn’t look good. I broke it down for him and he came to his senses and said he’d take the plea.”