“She won’t get picked up.”
I shrugged. It was obvious this woman had some contact with her daughter, and she wasn’t going to share the information with me. I doubted beating it out of her would be wise, considering her husband was my client.
I finished the Perrier and she sipped her brandy while we traded tolerant stares.
“Where’s her room?” I asked.
“Second floor, first door on the right.”
I left Phyllis alone with her alcohol and mounted the curving, carpeted staircase. The first door on the right was closed, as if someone were in there. Or the ghost of someone, maybe.
It didn’t look like a typical teenage girl’s room. It was too orderly and clean. Scadder said the maid still did her weekly ritual in here, but it looked more like a guest room than a kid’s room. Light blue carpeting, with a white set of drawers, white closets, and a matching white headboard for the single bed draped in pink sheets. On the dresser was a large oval mirror, which reflected the closets.
No posters. Just three bland framed prints of horses, the type hotels purchase by the hundreds to glue to the walls in their rooms. No cosmetics on the dresser, or clothing on the floor, or stuffed animals on the bed. Nothing to show the personality of the individual that lived here.
I began methodically searching for something that would give me a lead. A diary, an address book, letters, pictures, drugs, receipts, phone bills, a pamphlet about California, anything that might point a finger to which way she ran. What I found was a lot of expensive clothing, several dozen pairs of shoes, a drawer full of make-up, some school text books, and a small boom box with a crate of pop CDs.
Then I searched again, trying to think like a teenage girl. Where would I hide something I didn’t want my parents to find?
I checked under the mattress, behind the horse prints, under the drawers, and between the pages of her textbooks.
I found it in Beginning Algebra. A picture. It was of Amy, as confirmed by the snapshot Scadder gave me. She was wearing a bikini, her long brown hair pulled back, leaning against a white Land Rover. Next to her, with an arm around her shoulders and clutching her breast, was a tall, muscular man, ten years older, wearing a pair of jeans. He had limp greasy blond hair, in a designer cut that left the sides long in sort of a male page-boy. His bare chest showed some definition. The smile on his face was different than the one on Amy’s face. It didn’t seem like a happy smile. I don’t know exactly why. I squinted closer.
It was the eyes. When a normal person smiles, the eyes crinkle and shine. This man’s eyes were blank. Dead. They gave him a predatory look.
Between their legs, I made out a partial license plate number on the Land Rover. Three numbers and a letter.
I put the picture in my back pocket and resumed the search. It bore no additional fruit, other than a lipstick wedged behind the dresser. I left the room and closed the door behind me, making my way back down to the den.
Phyllis was perched on the couch, a full glass of brandy tilting down her throat. After a generous gulp, she turned her eyes to me.
“Find what you were looking for?” she asked, the liquor making her voice lower.
“It would help if you told me the truth.”
She got up and walked over to a table, picking an envelope up off the top.
“Vincent called and said to give this to you.”
I went over and took it, knowing immediately by the weight and feel that money was inside.
“She may be in trouble,” I said to her.
Phyllis shrugged her shoulders without spilling any brandy.
I grabbed another handful of nuts and found my own way out.
The money was all there, the Tylenol was starting to quiet Earl, and I had what might be a solid lead. I pulled out of Scadder’s driveway and planned my next move.
My next move was food.
I stopped by the first deli I saw and had them make me a sub with enough corned beef to induce coronary in a horse. The old guy behind the counter seemed to take a special pleasure in his job. There weren’t too many people around that did. I tried the sandwich and it was good and I told him so. It brought forth a big crooked smile, and he said he’d owned the shop for twenty-two years. I left before he started talking about the good old days.
Stomach satisfied, I found my way to a pay phone and punched in several quarters, dialing Chicago’s 26th Precinct. After being transferred twice, I got the office of Homicide Lieutenant Jack Daniels.
“Daniels.”
“Hi, Jack. Phineas Troutt.”
“How’s the game, Phin?”
“Still better than yours.”
She chuckled. As a rule, I didn’t like cops. Something about the very nature of the job seemed to attract assholes. What type of person would want to give out tickets and bust people’s balls for a living? Answer: bullies and jerks and guys with little man syndrome who needed to boost their fragile egos by pushing people around. But Jack wasn’t like that. She was a decent cop, and a decent person.
But my pool game was better.
“What do you need, Phin?”
“I’m following up on a case. The Scadder runaway that you referred to me. Thanks, by the way.”
“No problem. My hands were tied there.”
“I’d like to look at the girl’s file.”
I waited while her cop mind ran through the legal ramifications.
“Stop by tomorrow,” she said after the brief pause. “Before lunch.”
“I also have a partial plate I need to trace.”
Another pause.
“I think she could be in big trouble, Jack,” I pushed.
“She’s in big trouble anyway.” Jack sighed. “What’s the number?”
“White Land Rover, Illinois. The numbers are 345G, in that order.”
“I’ll know by tomorrow.”
“Thanks.”
She hung up, and so did I. I fed more quarters in the slot and dug out my wallet to find the number I wanted.
“Harry McGlade Investigations. I’m not here at the moment, but your money is important to me. And you’d better have money, because I’m famous and charge five grand a day. If you can’t afford that, don’t bother leaving a message. If you can, I think we’re going to get along great. Speak after the gunshot.”
Five K per day? McGlade wasn’t worth one-tenth of that. I figured he was milking his newfound celebrity. But there was a chance he’d help me for much less. Or for free. We were friends. Sort of.
“Harry, this is Phineas Troutt. I’ve got some work for you if you’re interested. Call me at the Michigan Motel.”
Since my diagnosis and subsequent plunge into the drugs and whores scene, I’d pissed away most of the contacts I used to have. Harry remained, for some reason. He didn’t need the money. Or the work. But he kept taking the jobs I offered. Might have been boredom, but I had a feeling it had more to do with companionship. Harry McGlade might be the only person in Chicago with fewer friends than me. His personality was a bit… abrasive.
I hopped back in the Bronco and cruised through the burbs, passing drug stores and ice cream shops and currency exchanges and fast food joints and gift shops and Radio Shacks and business supply stores and convenience marts. One day northern Illinois will be one huge, unending strip mall. I probably would live to see it. No big loss.
I saw a sign that said PAWN and pulled up. It was a large shop, filled with the prized possessions of many lives, lost due to hard times. Pawn shops exuded a certain sadness and desperation. I liked them.
This one was organized like they all were; electronic stuff, music stuff, jewelry stuff, and gun stuff, each section separated and smaller expensive items in glass cases. The man behind the counter; short, hairy, with a big nose, looked at me and tried to figure out if I was buying or selling. I walked over to the jewelry section and began to browse.
“Can I help you sir?” He had a gruff and cheerless voice, and his question seemed more like a ha
ggle than an invitation to assist.
“Looking for something for my girlfriend.”
He moved over to the jewelry counter and stared down at his inventory.
“What type of jewelry does she like to wear?”
It was an observant question. Different types of women wore different types of jewelry. I thought of Pasha. She didn’t wear rings. The earrings she wore were fashionable without being gaudy. Her necklaces and bracelets were of the accessory type, rather than the precious type.
“I’m thinking of an anklet,” I said.
It wasn’t flashy, and it could be hidden under nylons or slacks, but it was sexy and classy. Like she was.
“I’ve got several in different gold patterns.”
He showed me various herringbone anklets of different thickness. Then several rope twists. Nothing jumped out at me.
“I’ve got a diamond cut of platinum, but it’s a bracelet. Does she have big ankles?”
I shook my head. He found the bracelet. It was a sparkling white, shinier than silver. The cut resembled the rope twist, but its edges were beveled flat with hundreds of facets.
We discussed the price, agreed upon a reasonable figure after he showed me current platinum prices, and he threw in a new jewelry box. I was almost out the door when I noticed the guns.
Some time ago I had a tiny Seecamp DA Auto, .25, only four inches in length. I had prized that gun because it fit neatly into the hollow heel of a pair of cowboy boots. It had saved my ass more than a few times. When I lost it, I mourned.
“Gun enthusiast?”
“I’m looking for something small.”
“Do you have a FOID?”
“Yeah.” An Illinois Firearm Owner’s Identification card. I had one, in the name of some dead writer from Schaumburg.
“Interested in Derringers?”
I shook my head. The antique two shot guns were too thick to fit in my heel.
“Seecamp DA Auto or roughly the same size.”
“I’ve got an AMT Backup Auto, takes .380”
He pulled out a tiny gun that weighed about a pound. I sighted it and dry fired it several times. It seemed in good working condition, and also looked like a likely candidate to fit into my hollow heel. Plus it had the added bonus of carrying a bigger slug than my Seecamp did.
I turned the gun over. There was a small slit in the bottom of the stock, right next to where the magazine was inserted.
I didn’t know the purpose of the slit. A mount?
“What’s with the hole?” I asked.
“Check the grip,” he grinned. “But keep your hand clear.”
The grip was checkered Lexan, but the left side seemed to be set in a grooved track. I pushed up on the grip and a one inch gravity stiletto snicked out of the slit. It was a quarter inch wide and razor sharp. I pulled the grip back down and the knife was locked in place.
“Gunsmith modified it,” he grinned. “Lost money on the ponies, sold me his entire collection.”
I pushed the grip back up and upended the gun. The stiletto retreated back into its hidey-hole. It was the work of a craftsman. I tried not to show my enthusiasm and ruin my chance at price negotiation.
“How much?”
We played the haggling game, I eventually wore him down, and we agreed on a price. I waited while he phoned in a background check on my fake name. The dead writer came through for me, but there was a mandatory three day waiting period before I could take the gun home.
“If we call this a private sale, I can take the gun now,” I reminded him.
“The price I gave you was the store price, not the private sale price.”
I wound up paying the price he originally offered, plus twenty bucks. So much for my bargaining skills.
Then I was back in my truck and heading to school.
Shorington High was a few miles up the road. I arrived just at lunchtime, and all the kids who had passes were flooding out the doors and heading to their cars. It was a large parking lot, and it was filled. I wondered how many of these students had actually bought their cars themselves, without Mom and Dad.
That tiny moment of envy flickered and died as I pulled up into the parking space. My life hadn’t been a rich one, emotionally or financially, but that had nothing to do with these kids. If their parents had money, good for them.
I took my 9mm out of the back of my belt, putting it in the glove compartment with the anklet and the AMT. I had no idea how far gang activity had infiltrated the suburbs, so I didn’t want to walk unexpectedly through a metal detector. Being without a gun while on a job made me feel naked, but I was pretty confident I could handle a seventeen-year-old if he started getting rough.
The school building was large and white and two-stories. It had several entrances and I picked the middle one, assuming that was where the principal’s office was. There wasn’t a metal detector, but an adult with a hall monitor badge pinned to her chest immediately stopped me.
“Can I help you sir?”
She was short and pear-shaped and said it in a polite yet demanding way.
“My name is Phineas Troutt. I’m here to check on the disappearance of one of your students several years ago. Amy Scadder.”
As I was giving the speech I suddenly realized how weak it sounded. If they didn’t remember Amy, then Scadder’s business card wouldn’t open any doors except the ones I could loid with it. And I didn’t have a private eye license to impress anyone with.
“You have Mr. Scadder’s permission?” she asked.
I don’t know how well I hid my surprise, but I handed his card over. She nodded and beckoned me to follow.
I walked past lockers and students and students in lockers, many of them gave me odd looks. The Hall Monitor moved rapidly on her thick little legs, and I lengthened my stride to keep up.
“We’ll naturally try to do anything we can to help,” she said as we walked. “It’s a shame what happened to that girl.”
“I’d think it would be a scandal, not a shame,” I pushed.
“Students aren’t entirely to blame for drug use, Mr. Troutt. Peer pressure is enormous. And even families as respected as Mr. Scadder’s tend to have problems.”
“Why is Mr. Scadder’s family so respected?” I asked.
I highly doubted, in a school of many hundreds, that each parent was treated with such respect as she seemed to endow Scadder with. I doubted that most parents were even known by name.
“He graduated here in the sixties,” she said. “In the eighties he donated the funds for the new Scadder Theater. It was built next to the gym.”
I wondered why Scadder hadn’t mentioned that. Maybe he just wasn’t the bragging type.
“I’ll see if Principal Kwon can see you now.”
She left me in the waiting room of the principal’s office. I sat in a leather chair and leafed through a copy of College Times, reading about ten easy ways to improve your SAT scores. None of the ways they described involved cheating, bribing, or extorting. So much for preparing kids for life.
The Hall Monitor returned and flashed me a smile.
“This way, Mr. Troutt.”
I put down the mag and entered a small office wallpapered with plaques and certificates. The Hall Monitor left and closed the door behind her.
“Mr. Troutt, I’m Principal Kwon.”
I took her extended hand and her grip was warm and firm. Her expression held no shock or surprise at my cancerous appearance. When she sat back down, she smoothed her tailored brown suit over her thighs.
“You seem to have your share of commendations,” I indicated the walls.
“Our school has received top academic honors in the state since I became principal. We also have the largest exchange student program, the most college-level courses, and the cleanest cafeteria. The incidents of drop-out and student violence are among the lowest in Illinois for a school of this size.”
“Biggest theater too?” My implication seemed lost on her.
“
With professional lighting and sound. Give students a safe and productive place to learn, and they’ll exceed expectations.”
“How’s the expulsion rate?” I asked.
Her living smile flew out the window. I’d touched a sore subject. So I prodded at it.
“I was just wondering if the school’s high academic record was due to the practice of expelling students with less than average minds.”
“That’s illegal, Mr. Troutt. If Shorington High were involved in illegal expulsion activities I wouldn’t be up for a seat on the Illinois Board of Education.”
Ah. Political ambitions.
“I’m here about Amy Scadder,” I said, changing the subject.
She switched from bragging mode to sad mode and shook her head. “A tragedy. She was a promising student.”
“I’d like to speak to some of her teachers, if possible. And friends too.”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t interrupt the educational process for that.”
“How about after class?”
“Be my guest.”
Of course, I had no idea who Amy’s teachers were.
“Can I see her school record?”
“I’m afraid I can only release student transcripts with the student’s permission.”
“The student may be dead, Principal Kwon.”
She nodded sadly.
“How about a list of her teachers?”
“I’m afraid that’s part of the transcript, Mr. Troutt.”
“Vincent Scadder wouldn’t like to hear about the roadblocks I’m running into.”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to stand firm on this. Students—even missing students—have rights.”
“Did you know Amy?”
“Yes. We had several occasions to talk.”
“What can you tell me about her?”
“I’m afraid I don’t remember much. She was bright. Had decent grades.”
“If she was a model student, why was she in the principal’s office several times?”
“She was having… difficulties, in one of her classes.”
“What kind of difficulties?”
Principal Kwon began to say something, then stopped herself.
“I understand why you can’t show me Amy’s transcript, but I still don’t know why she ran off. If it was school-related, it would help me a lot to know that.”
Phineas Troutt Series - Three Thriller Novels (Dead On My Feet #1, Dying Breath #2, Everybody Dies #3) Page 26