by R. A. McGee
Mr. Blanchard stood from the leather chair. “I’ve known some of those cops my whole life. Worked side by side with them, me and my boys putting out fires, them saving people.”
“I’m sure they’re great cops,” Porter said, searching for the right words. “They just aren’t always properly motivated to find someone like Evanna.”
“Oh, and you are?” Mr. Blanchard stalked back and forth. “You’re just here for the paycheck. Don’t you try and tell me you have some higher calling that compels you to search for missing people. Dirty, greasy money. That’s all it is.”
“Jimmy.” A small, brunette woman spoke from the entryway to the living room. “Jimmy, why don’t you make us a couple of drinks, please.”
“Susan, listen, this guy—”
“Please? For me?”
Mr. Blanchard looked at his wife, then back at Porter. Porter could hear the man grind his teeth from across the room. He stomped off, his footsteps heavy on the floor.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Porter,” Susan Blanchard said. Her hair was pulled out her dark eyes, which floated in deep pools of red. In her hands, she clutched a small piece of paper.
“It’s just Porter.”
“Okay. Porter, then. Listen, I’m sorry about Jimmy. He’s taking this really hard. He isn’t himself right now. Evanna never went one day without calling us. Never once. For her to be gone over a week…”
“I understand,” Porter said.
“Do you? How many children do you have, Porter?”
Porter hesitated for a moment. There was a memory floating in the front of his head. A bad one. He quieted it. “I don’t have any.”
“Married?” Mrs. Blanchard said.
Another hesitation. Another memory. “No.”
“Then how can you understand at all?” Her eyes filled up with tears. She sat next to Porter, so thin she barely made a dent in the couch cushions. She sat the piece of paper on the cushion next to her. Her knee touched his.
Porter didn’t say anything, just reached over with an enormous paw and enveloped Susan Blanchard’s hands. Porter watched as the tears that had been pooling in her eyes started to fall. For several moments, Mrs. Blanchard silently sobbed into Porter’s shoulder. Porter didn’t interrupt.
She cleared her throat. “Jimmy isn’t happy about you being here. I’m sure you can tell.”
“I noticed.” Porter heard heavy footsteps stalk up the stairs to the third floor.
“He says you’re a mercenary. Just a hired gun. He said, ‘He’s only after the reward money, he doesn’t really care about Evanna.’ He doesn’t understand. Evanna was… is special to us. She was our only child. We tried and tried to give her a brother or sister, but it just never worked out that way. Every time I would… miscarry… Jimmy would hug Evanna tighter and tighter. Don’t get me wrong, Evanna is the light of my eyes, but Jimmy? Evanna’s such a daddy’s girl. They’ve always been attached at the hip, those two.”
Porter gently squeezed her hands.
“Jimmy doesn’t understand that Evanna isn’t special to everyone else in the world. I can’t expect you to come all the way from Florida and spend your time trying to find her and not get compensated. That’s what the reward is for, right?”
“Usually,” Porter said. In most missing-person cases, there was some type of reward. If the family was affluent, they often offered up their own money. If the family was less so, the reward usually came from a pool of money provided by the police, church, public donations, or one of the many crime-tip hotline organizations. The money was meant to entice some accomplice of the guilty party to squeal, or maybe get some nosy neighbor to report something they might have seen. Porter took it upon himself to be the nosy neighbor in these situations, ensuring that he found the missing person. It could be lucrative.
Footsteps thundered around above him. Despite the apparent sturdiness of the home, Porter wasn’t sure he didn’t see plaster falling from the ceiling.
“I just want you to know that I don’t have a problem with you or your motivation for being here. All I want is my baby back.”
Porter nodded.
“I called the number you gave me. For a reference? Spoke with the Greelys,” Susan said. “Genevieve was gracious and talked to me for a while.”
“They’re very good people,” Porter said.
“She understood what we’re going through. She was so good to talk to—it made me feel so much better. They spoke very highly of you. Said they would have never gotten Cody back if it wasn’t for you.”
It was true. The boy would have been lost forever if not for Porter.
Mrs. Blanchard picked up the piece of paper from the cushion next to her. She thrust it at Porter. He smoothed it out. “After you asked yesterday, I went into the attic and went digging through the Christmas stuff. I found this. It’s the address we have for Jamie. Evanna never introduced us to him. We barely knew they were dating. A couple months ago, I managed to get his address from her. For a card, you know? It was only right. How can you not send your daughter’s boyfriend and his family a card during Christmas?”
“Thank you, this will be a big help,” Porter said, slipping the paper into his pocket.
“You know, Porter, I don’t think you’re such a bad guy.”
“You don’t know me very well yet. Give it some time,” Porter said.
Mrs. Blanchard chuckled softly.
The footsteps came thundering down the staircase. Mr. Blanchard walked into the living room, holding a picture frame. “See this? See this?” He held the picture frame up, uncomfortably close to Porter’s face.
It was Evanna. They were all Evanna. A collection of photos was crammed into the frame: Evanna dressed in a basketball uniform, a grainy picture of a girl on a bicycle, a young lady with a group of friends making silly faces. A grainy picture of a baby on her father’s broad shoulders. Porter looked at the man.
“This is what you want money for. Our pain. Our little girl,” Mr. Blanchard said. He was red-faced and breathing heavily.
“Jimmy, please…”
“No, Susan. This prick wants to be properly motivated, fine. If you find my girl, safe, and in the next twenty-four hours, I’ll double the reward. Double it. That’s what you’re all about, isn’t it?”
“Jimmy, we can’t afford—”
“Don’t tell me what we can afford. I’ll give anything for Evanna. I have some money in a pension. I’ll do another fundraiser at the fire station. I’ll come up with the money. That should give you no excuse, should it?”
Porter stood, not content to let the man loom over him.
“Mr. Blanchard, if you would just relax a minute—”
“Don’t tell me to relax. You want money, there it is.”
“I just think—”
“Twenty-four hours, Porter. Take it or leave it.”
Porter looked at Susan, then into the angry eyes of Jimmy Blanchard.
“Take it,” he said and headed for the doorway.
Chapter 3
The neon lights for the burger chain caught his attention, and Porter realized he hadn’t eaten for a while. Nosing the small car into the drive-through, he ordered, paid, and was parked in a spot in a matter of minutes. He used the top of the car as a table and stood while he ate. The burger was good, and he wished they had one of the restaurants back home in Florida.
Before stuffing himself back into the rental, Porter pulled up the address Mrs. Blanchard had given him. The maps on his phone showed it was over the big bridge and in a less glittery part of town. Porter took note and started up the rolling breadbox, heading toward Jamie’s last address.
The sun was setting as he crossed the bridge, a fact that wasn’t lost on Porter. He didn’t particularly like California—the gun laws alone were enough to make sure he’d never live there—but the views were beautiful.
With each block Porter drove, he got further away from the nicer parts of town. The houses gave way to office parks and business, which in turn changed into strip malls populated with check-cashing stores and beauty supply places. Bus stops were overrun with graffiti. A final turn and Porter was on a street that was dominated on both sides by thin, run-down townhouses. The front yards were unkempt and half of the windows were missing blinds. Some had sheets hiding the interiors from view.
Porter passed the address and drove to the end of the street, noting a group of guys hanging out on a stoop. He made a U-turn and drove all the way down the street again, taking in the sights. Confident he could read the neighborhood, as well as the gang graffiti, he parked the car at the end of the street.
Normally, he would surveil a location from the comfort of his Yukon, air conditioner blowing, music playing at a reasonable volume. This was not an option for him now. His foot was asleep and the seat belt dock dug into his hip. He got out and stepped away from the rental. He didn’t lock the door. No one would steal the thing.
Porter walked down the street opposite Jamie Duncan’s house and stopped at a bench a few houses down. The face of the Realtor on the ad had been turned into a donkey with black and brown Krylon.
Letting someone know you were watching their house was usually the kiss of death. When he was a fed, Porter and his guys had called it ‘getting burned.’ There was no telling what someone would do if they knew they were being watched. They might alter their routine, stay in the house, or lead the surveillance crew into an ambush. All had happened to Porter.
Regardless, watching a place on foot was more viable in a neighborhood like Jamie’s. There was plenty of foot traffic on both sides of the street and people actually used public transportation here, so a guy sitting at the bus stop wouldn’t look out of place. Even a big brown guy with a beard.
All these reasons were ancillary, however, because he wasn’t sitting in that rental any longer than he needed to. It didn’t matter if the target was on Rodeo Drive and Porter was dressed like a hobo.
Stretching his legs out in front of him, Porter enjoyed the breeze and the last light of the day. The street lights came on, though nearly half of them didn’t work, including the one above Porter’s bus stop bench, which was a bit of good luck.
The evening stretched into night and Porter saw the creatures of the dark emerge.
When he was beginning to consider the least offensive place he could piss, the light in the room facing the street on the top level of the townhouse that belonged to Jamie flicked on. It had a full complement of blinds so Porter couldn’t see who was moving around, but the bulb silhouetted the person nicely, and Porter could tell where they were in the building.
The person went back and forth for some time until the light clicked off. Then, the light inside the bottom floor turned on. Porter imagined Jamie in the kitchen, getting some food before he left for the night. He imagined Jamie thinking that it would be better for him if he moved around at night. Why wouldn’t it?
If he stayed holed up all day and didn’t answer the door, who would know he was there? The cops wouldn’t go in without a warrant, and they didn’t have enough probable cause to get one. With the budgeting and staffing issues facing most departments, they likewise couldn’t afford to post a person on the house around the clock. No, Jamie would be in the clear if he just kept his head down.
The light clicked off. Porter knew Jamie was in the hallway now, putting on shoes or getting his keys and wallet. The lonely light above the front porch clicked on. The door opened and a figure stepped out backward, locking several locks and deadbolts before turning and walking down the stairs.
In the streetlight, Porter realized that this person was not Jamie. The young, thin brunette girl was a little taller than average, wearing a t-shirt, modest length shorts, and running shoes. She was definitely not running.
As she turned right and walked away from him, Porter crossed the street and stepped between two cars, tailing her. Her head was up and she was looking around her, peering into the cars as they drove by, even waving at a couple of them.
She had almost reached the end of the sidewalk when she stopped short. She was now walking back toward Porter. From where he stood, he could hear the catcalls and whistles from the group of men on the stoop he had driven past earlier. A couple of them stood up and jogged after the girl. She sped up, but they quickly overtook her.
One stood in front of the girl and one behind her. She tried to walk around them, but they shifted to block her way. The man behind her had his hands up her t-shirt and down her pants, and the one in front was going through her small purse.
“Excuse me,” Porter said, walking up to the trio. “You working tonight?”
The girl looked at Porter, but before she could answer, the more aggressive of the men, tall and thin with a Raiders jersey on, interrupted. “Yo man, can’t you see she’s busy right now?”
“I see that, but I figured she might actually want to make a little money, that’s all. Doesn’t look like you guys are paying up,” Porter said.
“What part of ‘she’s busy’ can’t you understand?” Raiders Jersey said. He let go of the girl and moved in front of her. “We saw her first. Go find your own.”
“Yeah, about that. I have a thing for brunettes and I don’t really want to find another one. This is the girl for me, what can I say?”
“You must be one dumb son of a bitch,” said the man rifling through the girl’s purse. He let go of it and it bounced against the girl’s thigh. The man who had been digging in the purse smiled, revealing a row of gold teeth.
“My mom isn’t a bitch, she’s a lady, but that isn’t the first time someone’s called me dumb, so maybe there’s something to it,” Porter said, hand slipping into his back pocket.
“Okay, if you so dumb then let me say it real slow for you. You ain’t getting this girl. Period. Piss off. But before you do…” Gold Teeth lifted his shirt. The familiar butt of a Glock handgun was tucked into his waistband. “Pay me.”
Porter feigned shock at the gun, but he’d suspected it was there all along: The man favored his waistband when he walked, hunched over slightly, and unconsciously patted it while he was talking, ensuring it was still in place should he need it. Standard tells of an armed person.
“Pay you? Then I won’t have any money for the girl,” Porter said. “I can’t see how that benefits me. How about you two chuckleheads leave us alone, and I won’t check the price of gold and decide if it’s worth it for me to take your fronts.”
Gold Teeth laughed so hard that Raiders Jersey looked at him. “Yo, what you wanna do?” he asked Gold Teeth.
“Tell you what, now you gonna pay, just to make sure we don’t kill you.” Gold Teeth slipped the gun out of his waistband and leveled it at Porter.
“Okay, okay. I’ll pay. No more trouble, just let me get my wallet.” Porter’s hand closed on the object in his back pocket. He stared at the barrel in his face, moved his head to the side pretending to take a look at the gun. “Just so you know, the safety’s on.”
“Huh?” Gold Teeth bent his elbow and looked at the side of the gun. It was a reaction, nothing that he meant to do.
Porter’s actions were all deliberate. He stepped closer to Gold Teeth, in between the gun and the man’s torso. He wrapped his left arm around the man’s elbow, using torque to begin the hyperextension process. Gold Teeth yelped in pain and Porter drove him sideways into Raiders Jersey, sandwiching the man into a parked SUV.
With his right hand, he pulled out the brass knuckles he had been fingering as they talked. ‘Brass’ was a misnomer—they were actually made of a hard polymer that could defeat the x-ray and metal detectors at the airport, where his own guns couldn’t.
Porter torqued Gold Teeth’s elbow until there was an audible snap. Then he reached over the man and hit Raiders Je
rsey multiple times on the side of the head. Raiders Jersey sagged, held up now only by Gold Teeth being pushed against him.
Porter pushed with his right hand, creating a space between him and Gold Teeth—just enough that he could dip his shoulder and bring the ceramic knuckles straight up through the soft area under the chin. Porter released the man’s arm and he crumpled into a heap on top of the unconscious man behind him.
Reaching down, Porter pulled the gun from Gold Teeth’s motionless fingers. “Glocks don’t have safeties on the outside, asshole. At least know what you’re carrying around in your pants.”
The skirmish had attracted the attention of several other men down the sidewalk, who were now standing up and heading toward Porter.
He pulled the slide of the Glock and saw a round eject and fall onto the sidewalk. Now he knew for sure the pistol was loaded. He was surprised how many people carried without a round in the chamber. He preferred to be sure when he picked up a strange gun.
“Go back to your porch,” Porter said, gun pointed at the advancing men. “Go sit and finish your forties. Do it. Now.”
Slowly, and with much theater, the men went back to the porch. A couple of them picked up cans shrouded in brown paper bags.
The girl stood, staring wide-eyed at the scene before her.
“What’s your name?” Porter said.
“Me?” the girl said.
“Yeah, you.”
“Sarah.”
“Sarah, reach in these guys’ pockets and get me their wallets.”
“What?”
“Give me their wallets. Go ahead. Take your time.” Porter kept the Glock aimed at the men on the stoop. A quick survey of the area revealed nothing else out of the ordinary.
Sarah reached down and pulled a wallet out of Gold Teeth’s pocket and handed it to Porter. He flipped it open and thumbed out a driver’s license and a few dollars from the cash section.
“Now the other guy.”