The Second Girl

by David Swinson

  “And that wonderful offer you made to pay off his car loan had nothing to do with it?”

  “That was just something I offered because his wife can’t afford the car payments.”

  “Then they lose the damn car. You lie to the wife about some ‘special service’ I offer and you manipulate Lenny into taking a plea deal. That’s sure as hell what it sounds like. In some warped way you think you’re helping me out because I didn’t want to go to trial and lose? The fuck, Frankie!”

  “I was helping him, and I guess you, too.”

  “That was foolish and incredibly inappropriate. And where the hell would you come up with eight thousand dollars? In cash, no less.”

  “You think I don’t have savings? ’Sides, he’s going to pay me back.”

  “So you made some sort of contract with my client?”

  “No, he’s good for it. Leslie. It was just a favor. Granted I didn’t think it through. But I thought I was doing a good thing. You’re the one that put it in my head with all this ‘second chance’ shit.”

  “Please don’t put this back on me. You really fucked up.”

  “Okay, I fucked up. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s just not good enough. You’ve done some funky shit in the past, but nothing that compares to this. Oh, wait, I forgot about the little girl. Silly fucking me. I don’t know, Frankie. I just don’t know. I need some time to digest this. Don’t call me and don’t come to the office.”

  “What are you talking about? You’re seriously overreacting here.”

  “I’m not overreacting. I told Lenny if he wants to go to trial then that’s what we should do and not to worry about whatever deal the two of you made, but he said no, to take the plea.”

  “So what does that tell you?” I ask, before she can continue.

  “You just don’t get it, Frankie. Back the fuck off. I’m done with this.” She disconnects.

  I slip my cell back into the left inner pocket of my jacket.

  It takes me a couple of seconds, but then: “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

  Thirty-seven

  I find the narrow bike path that winds its way through a wooded area, just about where Amanda’s hand-drawn map said it would be. The drawing shows where there’s a split in the path near a large boulder. Follow the path straight and it leads to Burke Lake. Take it to the left and it leads to another community development.

  She has a little x that marks the spot when you go left. It should be on the right side of the path near a creek. Find two large fallen trees, one on top of the other, at the bank of the creek and that’s where they’d hang, sitting on one of the fallen tree trunks like it’s a bench and smoking up their weed.

  I follow the directions, and sure enough, there it is. A small dirt path, probably made by thousands of footsteps, leads to the creek and the two fallen trees.

  No one’s around.

  I walk the short distance to check out the area. The ground surrounding the crisscrossed fallen trees is littered with empty beer cans, a couple of forties, a pint bottle of whiskey, and cigarette butts. The walking path I took to get here is nicely kept, but it seems this little area is a neglected spot. Probably because the park authority wouldn’t normally walk off the beaten path to find all this litter at my feet. This mess made by thoughtless teenagers is not so obvious unless you’re standing over it. Too many shrubs and trees to conceal it. That’s more than likely what attracted them here in the first place.

  I head back to the car.

  When I get there, I open the door. I sit for a second or two, and then I smash my head against the top of the steering wheel two times, very hard.

  “Damn,” I mumble, and then feel the blood trickle down my forehead.

  Thirty-eight

  I smoke a couple of cigarettes laced with cocaine for the ride home. It amps me up, but not for long, ’cause it’s just a quick fix. I don’t even know why I do it. It’s a waste of good coke.

  I call Leslie on her cell, but she doesn’t answer. I leave a message for her to give me a call back so we can talk. I try the private line at her office, but again no answer. Last, I call the main number, and Leah picks up.

  “Hi, Leah. Can you put me through to Leslie?”

  “I’m sorry, Frankie. She’s not available,” she says in a way that I know Leslie told her she doesn’t want to take my calls.

  “Just tell her I called, all right? That it’s important I talk to her.”

  “I will.”

  I disconnect the cell and drop it in the center console.

  “Idiot. Such a fucking idiot,” I tell myself.

  The guilt sets in when I decide I can’t do any more work today.

  I wouldn’t have the guilt if it were any other case.

  When I get home I grab a beer from the fridge, settle myself on the sofa, and get ready for what I know will be the beginning of a serious binge.

  Thirty-nine

  I’ve been up all night.

  I’ll need some help to make it through the rest of the day, so I replenish the supply I carry around, and then I put two grapefruit and some toast in my stomach.

  I’m no rookie. I’ve gone off on binges before. My record’s three days, and I haven’t even hit twenty-four hours with this one. I’ve got some time before I start to shut down. My head feels muddled in a cloudy haze, though. This thing with Leslie’s driving me nuts. I want to call her again, but I know she won’t pick up. I need to fix it, but I also know I can’t. I convince myself that she’ll come around with time. Time has a way of doing that.

  To start the workday off, I give Luna a call at his office to see what kind of information I can get from him.

  “I need to know if Davidson picked up this kid yet,” I say after we exchange pleasantries.

  “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

  “Because I’d have to fill him in on everything I’m doing and I’m not ready to go there yet. I just need to know so I don’t waste any more time trying to find this kid. He’s the only lead I got.”

  “What’s his name again?”

  “Edgar Soto.”

  “Do you have a date of birth?”

  “No, just that he’s seventeen, maybe eighteen, and lives in Virginia.”

  “Hold on.”

  I hear him typing on a keyboard and breathing into the phone.

  After a minute, he says, “Nothing in the system, not even NCIC. If he just got locked up, it might not be in yet.”

  “What about Live Scan for an arrest photo? That goes in right away.”

  “Now you’re making me get out of my chair.”

  “I’ll buy the rounds at Shelly’s next time we go.”

  “You know I can get in a lot of trouble doing this shit for you, right?”

  “Yeah, and that’s why I’m bribing you.”

  “Hold on a second,” he says, and I hear the phone receiver hit the desk.

  Almost five minutes later he returns with, “You still on?”

  “Yeah, go ahead,” I say.

  “There’s nothing for Edgar Soto in the system, but you know that doesn’t mean anything. If he was processed as a juvenile I wouldn’t see it here.”

  “I know. Appreciate it anyway, bro.”

  “No problem. Talk later.”

  It looks like I’ll have to give Davidson a call.

  I tell him I don’t have shit and I need some help if I’m ever going to find out what happened to Miriam Gregory. I ask what he’s got on Edgar.

  “Amanda popped him on a photo array and that, along with her statements, was enough for a judge to sign off.”

  “A good defense attorney will tear that shit apart.”

  “Based on what the victim said, this Edgar took her to DC a couple of times and on several occasions the defendants gave her drugs and solicited her for prostitution. They even told her how much money she could make. Edgar was there when they talked and even tried to convince her himself. She didn’t want to do it, so one day they got her high as a
kite and he just left her there. He’s good to go.”

  “Sounds like it. It’d have been tougher if she wasn’t a minor.”

  “I won’t argue with that.”

  “When are you gonna snatch him up?”

  “We’re working on that.”

  “When you do, you won’t forget about Miriam Gregory, right?”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t.”

  Damn, he’s being evasive, like this is some top secret shit.

  I know Davidson’s good at what he does, especially when it comes to interviewing. I still got this feeling that our boy Edgar will clam up, especially if they pick him up at his house. That’ll put his parents with him, and you can bet the first call they make is to a lawyer. By the time they get him in the box, they’ll be lucky if he admits to holding her hand.

  Forty

  I have a phone interview with Tamara Moore later this afternoon, and then in person with the other girlfriend on the list, Justine Durrell. After the conversation I had with Davidson, I make the decision to call the parents of the two girls and reschedule the interviews for tomorrow. I want to set up at the South Run parking lot for the day, just in case Edgar decides to play hooky. I don’t know what the chances of him showing are or whether he hangs there anymore. It’s the only solid lead I got, so I have to play it out, especially if I might lose him tomorrow. I have a feeling that’s why Davidson was being so secretive. They’re probably working on a search warrant for his house. We always liked to hit them early in the morning, catch them before they could wipe the sleep outta their eyes. Let’s hope that’s what Davidson is thinking.

  After a hot shower and a nasal cleanse, I put on one of my older suits, one I used to wear for court when I was a cop. Makes me feel like one again.

  I grab the notepad and the Miriam Gregory case jacket from my briefcase and slip them into the backpack. I check the pack and make sure I got what I need.

  I slip on my overcoat and step out into a light rain.

  It’s a cool rain and I look up so it can hit my face, but only for a second. More than that’d be silly.

  The traffic lightens at the 14th Street Bridge, and it doesn’t take long to get to the parking lot at South Run. There’re only a few cars parked here, but not at the end where the lot meets the woods. It’s a fairly large parking lot. Occasionally I’ll see a woman walking out of the rec center to her car or someone pulling in and parking to go inside. Most of them look like mothers, taking advantage of their kids being at school.

  The light rain eases to a mist and I’m nearly through a pack of cigarettes.

  I turn the radio on and it’s still tuned to 101.1. This time, “Hurt,” by Nine Inch Nails, an oldie I like and used to listen to back when I was in the academy with Leslie. But it makes me sad ’cause I think about her even more. I switch it off.

  I notice a car pulling in to the parking lot. It’s a light blue four-door.

  When it gets closer, I see that it’s a Honda Accord, not a Camry. It parks a few spaces over from me, the passenger’s side facing me. I lean down beneath my window.

  The passenger steps out first. He’s a white kid with wavy brown hair and can’t be more then seventeen. The driver steps out, but I can only make out the back of his head ’cause the car obstructs my view. He moves toward the rear of the vehicle.

  Damn if I didn’t get lucky. He sure as hell looks like Edgar Soto to me.

  They walk across the lot to a gravel road and the opening to the path. They disappear into the wooded area.

  I slip on my leather tactical gloves and move my car to a better position a couple of rows behind his—a spot that gives me a better vantage point to see the entrance to the path.

  About an hour and a half later I notice Edgar come walking from the path and heading back to his car. The distance from the path to his car is far enough that whoever he was with would’ve appeared by the time Edgar hit the gravel road.

  I shoulder my pack, exit my car, and act like I’m fiddling with my car door while he makes his way to his vehicle.

  He doesn’t notice me.

  I begin to move toward him while he’s unlocking the driver’s side door.

  He bends in like he’s trying to find something. That gives me the time I need to get behind him.

  I set my pack on the pavement.

  “Edgar,” I say.

  It startles him, and he hits his head on the metal portion of the doorframe. He grunts something and quickly turns to face me.

  He takes me for a cop right away and tries to push out and run, but I’m bigger than him by at least six inches and a hundred pounds. I grab him tight by his right hand and squeeze his fingers until he cries out. I twist his arm up and around so he can do nothin’ but turn with it. That’s when I shove him face-first against the glass of the rear passenger door.

  “What the fuck…” he huffs.

  I push my weight against him, look around me to see if anyone is watching.

  Not a mom or a friend in sight.

  I pull out my cuffs secured between my belt and the small of my back and click them tight onto the wrist of the arm I’m twisting behind his back.

  “What are you—”

  “Shut the fuck up,” I tell him, and then I cuff his other wrist so his hands are secured behind his back.

  I grab him by the hoodie of his zipped-up jacket to hold him up against the car while I lean over to the driver’s side so I can unlock all the doors. I do a quick pat-down, starting with his ankles and working up.

  “What’s this?” I ask, after squeezing his left front pants pocket.

  “Just my cell phone. What the fuck are you doing this for?”

  I check to make sure it’s a cell phone and put it back in his pocket. I squeeze his other pocket and feel what appear to be small zips with weed. After doing pat-downs for so many years, you learn what is what. I’m rarely wrong. When I’m done I force him around the car to the front passenger door.

  “What are you doing? What do you think you’re doing? Let me the fuck go!”

  “I said shut up.” And I gut-punch him so he curls down and has to gulp for air.

  I quickly open the passenger door of his car and muscle him into the seat.

  “Wait, wait…”

  I grab him by the chin with my left hand, push his head back against the headrest, and say, “One more word, Edgar. I swear, just give me another fucking word.”

  I take the seat belt and buckle him in. There’s nothing he can do with his hands cuffed behind him, so I step back and shut the door. I hurry around to the driver’s side, grab my backpack, and notice the keys to his car on the pavement under the open door. I pick them up and get in the driver’s side, set my pack on the floor behind the front seat.

  I start the car and back the fuck out.

  I scan the parking lot as I drive out, but don’t see anyone around.

  “Please, sir, please tell me what you want.”

  I know I warned him, but I allow it just one more time. I start to think maybe I shoulda thought this through a bit more, but I’m impulsive like that. Now I gotta deal with it.

  He’s moaning something I can’t understand, and I just wanna knock him into some white light so I can have time to mull everything over in my head.

  “What’s your last name, Edgar?”

  I look over, see tears streaming down his face. He knows I’m not a cop now. It’s gotta be terrifying, especially if you know what I know about me.

  “Here’s the deal. I ask only one time from now on, and if you don’t answer, I’m gonna hurt you. I’ll hurt you bad. What’s your last name?”

  “Soto,” he struggles out.

  “You just sit there and shut the fuck up, and I mean no crying, too, and maybe you’ll come outta this okay. You say one more word without me asking and you’ll get hurt. Clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I turn the radio on.

  He’s got it tuned to some shit I can’t stand. I find the classics stati
on.

  “Everything I Own,” by Bread. Haven’t heard them in a bit. My mother used to play this band. It makes me smile, but not for that reason, mostly ’cause having to listen to this song would drive Leslie nuts. I’m pretty sure she wasn’t even born when this song came out. I remember hearing it as a little kid, through my mom’s closed bedroom door. I sort of figured it was her alone-time music.

  I turn to look at Edgar. He’s too scared to look back.

  By the time the song ends I got this worked out in my head.

  I turn the radio off and head to I-95 to make my way back to DC.

  Forty-one

  I know Edgar’s gonna say something. Kids like him are stupid that way. I don’t wanna have to smack him down or do something else to hurt him while I’m driving, so I lay out the story for him.

  First I ask, “How old are you?”

  “Seventeen. I’m only seventeen.”

  “Then you’re old enough to make big decisions.”

  His lips purse and his jaw muscles tighten. He’s struggling hard to hold back those big-boy tears.

  “You’re gonna have approximately forty-five minutes to consider what I’m about to tell you. I might already know the answers to some of the questions I’m gonna ask, so I want you to be real careful about what you say. You’re no use to me if you lie.”

  He sniffles and says something unintelligible.

  “I need to know you understand me, Edgar.”

  “I understand. Please tell me what this is about.”

  I smack him hard on the side of his face with the back of my hand. Not enough to make him bleed, but hard enough that it stings like shit and he’ll have a bruise to show for it.

  “You don’t ask me questions. Only give answers.”

  “Yes,” he says through clenched teeth.

  “What’s your friend’s name, the dude you walked into the park with?”