I ate another pretzel. “How old?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Why did you take the case?”
She placed her palms on her thighs and stared at me intently. “Her parents…they showed me pictures of her when she was thirteen. Oh my God, Ozzie—she was so full of life. She just oozed positivity and fun and happiness. And then…”
“What?”
“Her sister disappeared. It crushed her. It crushed the whole family.”
I could feel a knot forming in my gut. I knew it was because of my Mackenzie, a daughter I didn’t know I had until a couple months back. But now that she was in my life, I couldn’t imagine my life without her in it.
Ivy picked up her phone, swiped the screen a few times. “Take a look at these.”
The first pictures showed bloodied gashes across a girl’s foot.
I moved to the edge of the couch. “What is that?”
“They found out she was cutting herself.”
Silence fell over the room for a few seconds. The quiet actually felt nice compared to the nonstop racket at the dance. Well, the racket had been mainly Chase and Taylor.
My mind went back to this missing girl, Chantel. Well, young woman. I thought of Kate, who was just two years younger. I scratched my chin and felt the usual late-night scruff.
“I know what you’re thinking. You’ve already gone there, haven’t you?” she asked, pointing her phone at me.
“What?”
“First her sister goes missing, and now ten years later, Chantel goes missing. Is there any way they might have been kidnapped by the same person?”
“Okay, the thought crossed my mind. I know it’s highly unlikely. But maybe some demented person knew the older sister had gone missing and wanted to torture the family more. Have you thought of that?”
“I’ve been stuck in this apartment all night. And I’ve had the case for the last three days. I’ve thought of every possible angle, including that one. We can’t rule it out, but it doesn’t add up.”
“Convince me.”
She stood and walked toward the door. I wanted to ask if she needed to borrow some socks, but I didn’t want to offend her. Underneath her smallish frame, there was a pit bull inside. Our mutual friend, Zahera, had shared some things about Ivy’s life that were beyond belief. Ivy was a great example of someone who’d pushed through insurmountable odds to still be alive and contributing to society. I hoped Chantel would have a chance to find a similar role in this world.
“Her sister was older, more mature. I think she was in college. So, if you look at the profiles of most kidnappers, the real sick ones who either kill their victims or hold them hostage, they usually stay within the same age range. Thirteen is just too young.”
She knew her stuff. “Makes sense. But what ever happened to Chantel’s older sister?”
Ivy shrugged. “Ally was never found. I spoke to the law-enforcement authorities. They really never got any decent clues.”
“And the sister has been missing ten years?”
She nodded. “The parents slowly lost hope, and after about the fourth year, they believed she’d died. They never got closure, though. I can still see that it haunts them.”
Ivy took in a shallow breath.
“And now, Chantel goes missing. They must be ready to implode.”
Ivy blinked a few times, the lines around her eyes hardening. It seemed like she was willing herself to feel the same as the tormented parents. She was invested, but I wondered if it was wearing on her.
“So,” she said, dropping her shoulders a couple of inches, “Chantel is a different person than her sister.”
“I saw that. The pictures…” I pointed at her phone. “Has she continued with that kind of self-destructive behavior?”
“You have no idea.”
“No, I don’t—but you do.” I tried to smirk.
She smacked my leg. “Okay, Dr. Sarcasm. Chantel has had countless eating disorders, cutting, and she’s had major substance-abuse issues.”
“Damn. Any preference?”
“Of?”
“Drugs, alcohol?”
“According to her parents, she’s tried everything. Alcohol is almost too easy for her to get, so she’s shown a tendency to fall back to that. But they also said she’s recently become hooked on LSD.”
I could feel my face scrunch up as I shook my head. “Really sad.”
Ivy took in a deeper breath this time. “She’s been in and out of rehab a dozen times. She tried to commit suicide four times.”
I ran my hand across the arm of the sofa. I’d seen a few folks go through the justice system with those types of problems. More often than not, rehab was not a viable option, and they had no support system in place. That kind of addiction wasn’t something anyone could overcome solely by themselves.
A thought finally pierced through all the information. “You said Chantel’s been missing for two months. Yet, they brought you in only three days ago?”
“She’s disappeared on her own several times. But usually she’ll be gone for a week, two weeks, tops. The parents get worried, but they know she’ll turn up to ask for more money or forgiveness for falling off the wagon.”
“Maybe they’re connected…the asking for forgiveness and money. I mean, the over-the-top addicts are manipulative.”
“The best damn liars in the world,” she said.
“Worse than politicians too. And that’s saying something.”
She didn’t smile. Not sure she got my sense of humor. But I wouldn’t stop trying.
“This time, the parents reached out to the local cops.”
“Where’s local? San Antonio?” I knew that was Ivy’s home base.
“Actually, Marble Falls.”
The small Hill Country town northwest of Austin. “I once heard of a guy who moved there after he won the lottery. He blew all his money and had to go beg for his job back.”
She brushed some hair out of her face, completely ignoring me.
“And I guess the local cops found no reason to believe anything had happened to her?” I surmised.
A shrug. “They knew Chantel’s story. Everyone did. They talked to a few people, including her very part-time employer, but no one had any clue what happened to her. The parents tried convincing the police that this time was different. She’d never been gone this long. But the police said they found no evidence of foul play and couldn’t find any record of her using her cell phone or credit card. They kind of blew off the parents, saying Chantel is twenty-three and she’s able to do what she wants.”
“And then her parents reached out to you?”
“They’d read a few stories about ECHO.”
That was the acronym for Ivy’s firm. I had no idea what it stood for. Something about helping each child in the world. I made a mental note to ask her later.
Closing my eyes, I rubbed the bridge of my nose.
“Drink too much at your reunion?”
“Hardly. But if I’d stayed much longer, I would likely be suffering a hangover just from some of the company there.” I opened my eyes, ate another pretzel. “This new clue from the parents. You never told me about it.”
She arched her back. “Oh, right.” She opened the photo app on her camera and showed me a picture of some words scribbled on a sticky note. I couldn’t read it. “They found that note under Chantel’s mattress.”
“Can you zoom in?”
She used her fingers to blow it up. I saw the letters LSD and an arrow pointing to the word “Psycho C.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? I mean, I assume LSD is the drug, but…”
“They think, and I tend to agree, that he might be Chantel’s drug contact.”
“Some guy named Psycho C.” I nodded. “Okay. I guess I can see that. But I don’t know too many people with the first name of Psycho.” I grinned.
“Says the man named Ozzie.”
“How about ‘Ivy’?”
This
time she at least gave me one of those little-girl mean looks. It wasn’t a smile, but we were making progress.
“Why Austin?”
“They don’t really know. They just know she’s been here before. Had good memories here, as well as bad memories. It’s a major city, a place where someone could pretty easily find LSD. Any ideas on how you think we can get started?”
Two options came to mind. “After we drop off Mackenzie for school, we’ll get started,” I said.
She shook my hand—yes, shook my hand, like it was some type of business transaction. “Thanks, Ozzie. I knew you’d find it in your heart to help.”
Heart or no heart, I knew the odds of finding Chantel alive were lower than me and Nicole ever getting back together.
6
He flipped his jacket off his tall frame and draped it over the back of a vinyl chair—the only thing in the rundown apartment that wasn’t covered with some type of unknown substance. He rolled up his sleeves and eyed the two women huddled in the corner.
The girl with the Mohawk cracked open a single eye and tried to shift her body. She was wearing a sleeveless flannel shirt and some type of halter top underneath it, and a pair of black jeans with holes everywhere. A slice of light split through vertical blinds, illuminating the girl’s upper arm. A hint of muscle.
She was a brute, but there was something about her that was a turn-on. He knew she’d been in a few scrapes. She carried a pencil-sized scar along the back of her neck—he’d inspected it the previous night, when he was on the other side of her. Add in her tats and a good trip of acid, and this bitch was like a wild horse. He was just glad he was the stud who’d been given the fortune of riding said horse.
The other girl snored as if she were sleeping off a drinking binge, but that was a preschool activity compared to what she’d done. Her dress was twisted around her legs, her scuffed red heels still on her feet. Sure, she had ringlets of golden hair, and those piercings—especially the one in her navel—had done a number on him. Her body…all he could say was, “Damn.” Hard and soft all in the right places.
But she’d been a huge disappointment. She’d talked a big game, acted as if she couldn’t wait to take another “hit” of acid and experiment a little. But she never came through. It was like spoon-feeding an invalid.
Not worth it.
And then, just before he left after he’d forced himself on her, she’d uttered those fateful words: “You raped me. And I won’t let you get away with it.” She’d passed out before he could even utter a response. While he considered taking care of business right then and there, he hadn’t had the time.
Mohawk shifted, wiped her mouth. “What time is it?” she asked.
“Time for you to get on out of here,” he said, nudging his head toward the door.
She pushed off Ringlets and got to her feet, but quickly lost her balance and fell into the man’s chest.
“What the hell you think you’re doing?” He took her by the arms and threw her back until she smacked against the wall.
“What the fuck, dude? You don’t have to get physical. I ain’t your whore.”
She was feisty. And he loved it.
“Ah, you know I didn’t mean it. I just can’t get my nice white shirt dirty. Anyway, we both know how rough you like it.”
She sniffled and looked off into the distance. “Well, don’t make it a habit…unless, you know, you’ve got more of those magic tablets on you. I really like the ones with Bugs Bunny.” She took a couple of steps to the door, then stopped and turned around. “Do you have any more? I mean, we could make it a double-header, if you know what I mean.”
Frickin’ addicts just didn’t know when to stop. That was why he was drawn to them.
“I can get my hands on anything, Mohawk. Money talks, right? Another night, though. Got some business to finish. Next time, it’s just you and me.”
She arched an eyebrow as she grabbed the doorknob. “Maybe I’ll bring a friend…or two.”
Can life get any better? he thought. “Sounds like a challenge to me.”
She left, and all that could be heard was the slumbering snore of Ringlets. He thought he’d heard her name the previous night, but it didn’t stick. The names rarely did. He had his own nicknames for each of the women he preyed upon. He kicked her shoe, and she jostled awake.
“Stop, I’m sleeping,” she said, draping an arm over her head.
“Good morning, sunshine…good morning to you,” he began to sing. He laughed out loud at his playful spirit. He almost sounded like his pestering mother when he was younger and she’d force him to get up for school.
Oh, the sacrifices he’d endured.
Ringlets stopped moving. More snoring.
Shaking his head, he said, “Listen, if you don’t get your ass up, I’m going to have to force you up. I’m not your damn mother.”
A shoulder moved, but that was about all.
How much can a successful, respected man take? For everything he’d done for her, this was how she repaid it. It was pure contempt.
He counted to five—a little coping technique he’d learned along the way to deal with the ball-and-chain. But it didn’t help. His anger meter went from one to ten like it had been shot out of a cannon. He bolted out of his stance, grabbed Ringlets by the arm, and yanked her to her feet.
She landed like a newborn horse—her legs bowing in, her head rocking back and forth.
“Okay, finally,” he said, smacking his hands together.
She leaned forward. “I think I’m going to…” Vomit erupted as if a demon inside of her had just been exorcised.
He tried jumping back, but it was too late. Pink-colored bile had spewed all over his clothes.
“What the fuck?” He spread his arms, looking down at his shirt and pants. He thought his veins might pop out of his skin. “Do you know how much this shit cost? I told you like I tell everyone: don’t put your stank on my clothes. And look at what you did.”
“Sorry?” she said as more of a pathetic question. She coiled her body into something resembling a Twizzler.
That was it.
He pounded two steps in her direction—he didn’t see the cup on the floor. Like a logger on water, his foot slipped, and his whole body went airborne. He landed with a thud onto his back, grunting out in pain.
“Serves you right.”
He looked up as she wiped her mouth, her body suddenly full of energy. “I remember it all. You fucking raped me last night. I told you ‘no.’ Have you ever heard of the word before, you snobby piece of shit? You make me sick.”
She turned and walked to the door. He quickly twisted around, used his legs to push off from the wall, and zipped across the slick floor until he snagged at her ankle.
She squealed, kicked her leg away. A heel cocked him right in the chin. “Fuck you!” She spit on him, opened the door, and ran off.
He shifted his jaw—thankfully, it wasn’t broken. Up on his feet, a jolt of pain instantly shot up his leg and into his lower back. Somehow he still mustered up a chuckle. She actually thought she’d get away.
He hobbled through the door and stopped, his senses on high alert. Heels tapped rapidly on concrete. He moved to the staircase and looked down. He saw movement. He whirled around and skipped down the first flight—it felt like his back was taking a nail gun with each step.
“Fuck,” he said, a hand on his back as sweat trickled down his face. He knew he couldn’t let her make it outside. This part of town, especially at this hour, was rather barren, but there might be someone walking a dog or maybe a couple of college kids looking to score some “windowpanes.”
He stiffened his leg so that it wouldn’t bend and then hobbled down the stairs as best he could. The agony sent shockwaves through his entire body, but he didn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop. Down another flight, and then another. He could see the back of her head now.
“Ringlets, I’m coming for you, darlin’.”
She squealed as she looked
over her shoulder. Then she skipped down another flight, falling on the last step. Pushing up with her arms, she looked at him with horrified eyes as he stood one flight above her.
He chuckled again. “It’s not worth it, Ringlets. We just need to talk it out, right?”
Hadn’t that clueless counselor mentioned that in couples therapy? He was always good at using something he’d learned in one area of his life to benefit him in another area. He was just a well-rounded guy. Always had been. His mother had always said so.
He hobbled down the next flight of stairs, only to see her racing through a door. They weren’t on the ground floor. Was that another exit?
He chased after her, slamming the door open. He stopped, scanning the area for any sign of movement. It appeared to be a cavernous room, mostly filled with large pipes, bins of trash, and boxes. He could hear dripping water, but no tapping shoes. He took one more step in.
A flash of gray. He threw up an arm, but it wasn’t quick enough.
A pipe clanged off his head. He fell to his knees; his skull felt like it had been cracked like an egg. Now down on all fours, he looked up and could barely make out an image running off. It had to be Ringlets.
Something metal rolling against his fingers.
The pipe.
Using what little energy he could muster, he hurled the pipe like a Frisbee, his momentum taking him back to the floor.
He heard a double-clang and a squeal. It connected!
“Thank you, God.” He crawled toward the girl, her shrieks growing louder with each surge.
A few feet away, his hand touched blood. He licked his fingers. “You want more of that, don’t you, Ringlets?”
She began to whimper. “I think you broke my leg.”
“Well, blame yourself, darlin’. This was all your doing.” He took hold of her ankle and scooted her closer. “What do you say—one last blowout before your life ends?”
“No, you don’t have to do this. Please, let me be. I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”
He could have written the script. Predictable and boring.
“Okay, I was going to be nice and give you one last hit. The Bugs Bunny tablet.”
Shame ON You (An Ozzie Novak Thriller, Book 4) (Redemption Thriller Series 16) Page 3