The Sleeping Girls

by James Hunt

  “Then you should probably dump him,” Susan said.

  The girl’s face slackened, and she bagged the item and then put the receipt in the bag. Susan grabbed it from her and walked outside, the box open before the door shut behind her.

  “Strawberry Frosted Pop-Tarts,” Susan said, examining the pink pastry. She bit into one and felt immediately better.

  18

  It didn’t take long for Susan to eat her way through the pastries once she returned to her desk at the precinct.

  She went through the rest of the list from Ancient Oaks along with the individuals that could confirm their alibis, calling folks, and before she realized it, she had checked off everyone on the roster save for Jerry Winger.

  Susan was surprised that Foster and Marsh’s alibis held up. But they were just word of mouth, and until they had evidence to suggest otherwise, she knew that she couldn’t touch them. She looked into the van that Winger had registered a little bit more and discovered that the model was newer than the one she saw from the ATM’s footage.

  Typing with one hand, her eyes glued to the screen, Susan reached for the box of Pop-Tarts, only to find her fingers touching the inside of an empty box. She frowned and then glanced down at the pile of crumbs that had collected on the desk, over her shirt, and between the keys of the keyboard.

  After nearly an hour at her desk, Susan stood and stretched her legs as she walked over to the coffee pot. But when she started to fill her cup, she saw her hand, and she froze.

  The slight tremor in her left hand caused the coffee to slosh back and forth in the cup. Susan knew it was the beginning of her withdrawals. She’d just been so busy she didn’t have the time to think about it, but she knew she would reach the point where she couldn’t hide it anymore. No more than her father could hide his drinking.

  Growing up, Susan had always wondered how her father could have drunk himself to death, how he could have just given up and everyone and everything around him. But after working the streets and going through her own addiction, she thought she finally understood.

  While she might have sought out this kind of work as some redemption and way to understand her father better, Susan felt no closer to forgiving him, or herself, for their tumultuous relationship.

  Sickened by the memories and withdrawals, Susan put the coffee pot down, grabbed her jacket and smokes, then headed out the back door.

  Hands still shaking, Susan pinched a cigarette between her teeth and then cupped her hand around the flame from her green Bic lighter until the tip of the Marlboro glowed red.

  “Hey, Susie Q!”

  The voice came from across the building, and Susan looked to find the Henry Detectives heading her way. One had the first name of Henry and the other had a last name of Henry. They’d been partners for years because no lieutenant wanted to break up the Henry and Henry gang.

  “Henry,” Susan said, immediately smiling. “Henry.” If there was one thing she missed about hanging around the precinct before she went undercover, it was greeting her favorite detectives.

  “You all right? We heard you got banged up in a drive-by?” Last Name Henry asked.

  “I’m all right.”

  “We found the ride that they used,” First Name Henry said. “Plates were taken off, and the VIN was scratched off.”

  “I didn’t imagine it would lead anywhere,” Susan said. “The streets just wanted to make sure they could still get a hard-on, I guess.”

  Both Henrys chuckled.

  “Hey, you two know anything about two detectives over at Fourteen? Palmer and Winterguard?” Susan kept her fist wrapped around the lighter and pocketed it in her jacket.

  “Shit, Winterguard is still on the force? He worked back when my great-granddaddy was a cop,” Last Name Henry said. “That old bastard is a waste of a badge. You remember that serial killer case last year?”

  “The one who hunted girls in the woods?” Susan nodded. “It was all over the news.”

  “Yeah, well, Winterguard was on the task force to catch the guy, and he actually let him get away during a sting. He forgot to lock the back door of the room they were using, and the guy slipped right out.” Last Name Henry skidded his palms together, thrusting the top one forward and making a quick-disappearing sound effect with his mouth. “I don’t think I’ve seen a bigger blown case than that one.”

  “Yeah, the task force didn’t even catch the guy,” First Name Henry said. “It was some guy over at Eighteen. Grant, I think.”

  Susan inhaled until her lungs had a nice warm burn. “Yeah, I remember reading about that.” It was about the same time that Susan had finished up at the academy. All the recruits were talking about it. They were calling the detective who caught him a legend, a real badass that chewed up nails for breakfast. But when Susan finally saw a picture of him, she didn’t think it was a fair assessment. The guy looked like any average Joe she passed on the street. He was cute, but a little too brooding for her.

  “What’s up with Winterguard?” First Name Henry asked.

  “I got pulled on to assist with a homicide they’re working,” Susan answered, then arched her eyebrows as she took another inhale, the cold starting to freeze the tip of her nose. “He’s not too happy about me doing his job.”

  Both Henrys laughed again and then First Name Henry opened the back door. “Well, if you get into too much trouble you can just join our unit.”

  “Yeah,” Last Name Henry said. “Susie Q and the Henrys. Got kind of a nice ring to it.”

  Susan laughed. “Sounds like a jazz band. Works for me.”

  Last Name Henry disappeared inside first, but First Name Henry lingered behind. “What time are you punching out today?”

  Susan smiled, trying to remember to be polite. The first piece of advice that she had received when she signed up for the academy was from a female recruiter. The woman was in her forties, had been around for a long time, and the way that she looked Susan in the eye when she told her to never sleep with anyone in the department made her keep her promise not to. And she had.

  “Probably in a few hours,” Susan answered. “I’m meeting a guy for dinner. What’s up?”

  It was the easiest way for Susan to let down the other cops in the building without actually telling them no. And while she liked First Name Henry, she wasn’t about to risk the entanglement of an interdepartmental relationship with anyone. She had already jeopardized her career enough by sleeping with Charlie.

  First Name Henry smiled, but then backed off the same way all of them did whenever they knew they’d been shot down. “Nice. A few of the detectives were grabbing drinks. Wanted to extend an invite. Maybe next time.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” Susan said.

  He disappeared inside, and Susan finished her smoke.

  It hadn’t been the first time she’d been approached. Men had always looked at her a certain way. She was petite, pretty, and could handle her own in a room full of men. It was a combination that tended to attract more suitors than she wanted.

  But if she were going to sleep with a Henry, she’d much rather have a one-night stand with Last Name Henry. The man had an ass like a snare drum.

  Susan dropped her cigarette and then checked the time on her phone. It was already eight o’clock, and she had no idea where the day had gone. She thought about Ginny and wondered if the girl was still alive. They were now well past the twelve-hour mark, which was the time frame from abduction to murder for Katy Matthews.

  Susan leaned back from her computer and rubbed her eyes. She needed a break, and she desperately wanted a Pop-Tart. She settled for another smoke instead, finding humor in the fact that she was more likely to die from this death stick than heroin, at least at this rate.

  All of the bad things that she sought out in high school, the drugs and alcohol that she funneled into her body, the bad boys that she let inside of her, it had all felt good at the moment but left her empty when they were over. Just like the cigarette would eventually make her f
eel worse.

  But right now, in the cold dark behind the police station, with her mind struggling to piece together the threads of this case, it made her feel good. And she would take what good she could get.

  Finished with her second, she ground it into the pavement with the tip of her boot, then glanced up to the night sky, unable to see anything but black. The lights from the city blocked out the stars. But somewhere out there in the night was a girl who had done bad things, made terrible choices, and was now a part of something far more dangerous than she could imagine.

  It wasn’t hard for Susan to see herself in those girls. After all, she had spent the past six weeks pretending to be one of them, living the same lives that most of them lived. She experienced the fear, the empty thrills, and the desperation that comes with a life where you don’t know if you’ll survive the next day.

  Susan returned inside and restarted her search, this time checking the files for any redheads that had been arrested on drug or prostitution charges. There were two in the system. One was incarcerated at Belmont, and the second was jailed at King County, both with one year and six months left on their sentences, respectively.

  Susan drummed her fingertips on the desk, knowing that it was possible the information she received was wrong. The girl could have been wearing a wig, or the man she spoke with had misremembered. He clearly wasn’t entirely lucid, his brain fried by drugs and life out on the streets. It was hard to imagine that all of the information that he gave Susan was accurate. She was probably chasing a dead end, so she decided to stick with what she knew.

  She knew that a girl had been taken. She knew that there had been some type of struggle. She knew that the perp drove a white Ford work van. And she knew that she was running out of time before the man did the same thing to Ginny that he did with Katy Matthews.

  Susan continued to drum her fingers on the desk, the motion falling into a hypnotic rhythm as she worked the case over in her mind. She thought about those pictures in the box she found beneath the vanity. She remembered how Katy was smiling, almost happy that she had been taking the pictures.

  Whoever took those pictures of Katy was someone that she trusted, and that thought brought Susan back to the suspects involved with Ancient Oaks. Something about them wasn’t sitting right, especially after her interaction with Winger. But while Winger didn’t want to cooperate, she might be able to check Ancient Oaks’ files to see if a redhead named Ginny ever visited their shelter.

  19

  Hungry, and not wanting to think on an empty stomach, Susan picked up some drive-through, the scent of grease filling the inside of the cruiser, and she munched while she drove toward the shelter on the outskirts of downtown.

  The burger and fries helped clear the fog from hunger. By the time Susan arrived at Ancient Oaks, the food had provided a needed boost of energy, but she stayed parked outside while she lit a smoke, knowing that she couldn’t do it inside.

  The shelter was much quieter than it had been when she had visited during the day, but she figured that was normal. She knew that a lot of these places had mandated lights-out times to help give the recovering addicts a routine.

  Routine was necessary, and being told what to do, where to go, and when to do it helped keep their minds off of the constant urge to chase another high. Because it was always there, even with the distraction, but a busy mind and busy hands helped to forget about what they really wanted.

  Susan figured that might be what was keeping her from shooting up again. She hadn’t really stopped working the case except to sleep and eat. She had traded one addiction for another, but while the heroin could kill her, at least with the situation she could be productive with her time.

  She studied the layout of the building and the surrounding area more intensively as she finished the cigarette. The lights from inside the shelter shone through the windows, glowing in the darkness like they were some kind of beacon of hope, beckoning all those who were weary and wanted to heal themselves and pull themselves from the depths of despair that had plagued their hearts and minds.

  More than once, Susan had wanted to come to a place like this during her undercover work. But she came close only once, going so far as walking right up to the front door.

  The memory itself was hazy. Susan had been high at the time. She didn’t remember how she got there, only that she was wandering the streets, looking for something. It was late, and most businesses and places had shut down.

  But Susan remembered finding one place like Ancient Oaks, the light on inside, a lantern in the dark. She was drawn to it like a moth to a flame, and at that moment she wanted nothing more than to walk through that door. She was so close to seeking help, to give in.

  Susan couldn’t remember how long she stood there, but she did remember that when she placed her hand on the door handle, tears rolling down her cheeks, Susan saw the fresh needle marks in the crook of her arm, exposed through holes in the ratty shirt she’d been wearing. There was something about the marks that caused her to stop. It was the way that they were exposed, and the way the dots were spread so sporadically on her arm.

  The sight of those scars and needle marks made her let go of the door, and she ran as far away from the place as she could get, pushing the thought of ever going back from her mind.

  Finished with the cigarette, Susan flicked the nub onto the pavement, letting it smolder as she walked toward the front doors.

  Even though the lights were on, there was no one staffing the reception desk. The college intern that she’d met earlier was probably at home, having logged in her hours for the day. The door was unlocked, and Susan entered to nothing but dead quiet.

  All of the tables and chairs that were filled with people earlier in the day had been neatly put away. Susan took the time to walk around the place. She glanced up, finding it strange that there were no cameras on the premises. She would have thought it would be somewhat of a necessity considering that the place was filled with folks coming off the streets. And since it was open twenty-four hours, leaving the doors unlocked would have allowed anyone to walk in, coming and going as they please.

  She was surprised that she didn’t notice the lack of cameras the first time.

  “Can I help you?”

  Susan turned and saw a man exiting one of the hallways, and she flashed her badge. “Kevin Marsh?”

  Kevin stared at the badge, wiping his hands off on his jeans as he approached. “Yes?”

  “I spoke with your boss Shawn Foster earlier in the day about a young girl who was a resident here a while back,” Susan said. “I was hoping to take a look at your files.”

  “What for?” Kevin asked.

  “I just want to double check on a few things, make sure I didn’t miss any details the first time.” Susan hadn’t looked at the files, but she was hoping that Kevin didn’t know that.

  Kevin glanced back down the hallway that he’d just come from. He looked worried. When he turned around, he shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea right now. Why don’t you come back tomorrow when Shawn’s here?”

  Susan nodded, but she didn’t leave. “You work the late shift a lot?”

  Keven narrowed his eyes, then crossed his arms over his chest. “Yeah.”

  “What kind of work do you do around here?”

  “Mostly maintenance stuff,” Kevin said. “Every once in a while, I’ll chat up a few of the residents, see how they’re doing. Sometimes I have to toss folks out that are being a nuisance, but that doesn’t happen often.”

  “Did you ever throw anyone out when Katy Matthews was here?” Susan asked, taking a closer look at Kevin Marsh. He was thicker than Foster, more muscular, and she didn’t have a hard time imagining him being able to subdue someone. He carried himself like he’d taken a few self-defense classes. Probably been in one or two real fights.

  “I don’t really keep a log of it,” Kevin said.

  Susan nodded, keeping it casual. “You remember a girl named Ginny
that might have stayed here? Young girl. Red hair.”

  “No.” Kevin drew in a breath. “Listen, I really need to get back to work—”

  “If I could just take a look through your files to see if she was here, it would really—”

  “I said no.” Kevin’s face hardened. “In fact, I think that you should leave.”

  All of the patience that Susan had exercised over the past few hours was slowly starting to wane. She was running out of time, and arguing with this klutz was pointless. She needed to act, and she needed to do it quickly. But she retained her cool, raising her hands and slowly backtracking toward the lobby doors. “I appreciate the time.”

  Kevin followed her all the way to the door and then watched her as she climbed into her cruiser and turned down the path.

  But what Kevin didn’t see was that Susan parked on the road and then sprinted back between the trees to the building. She donned a pair of gloves and then removed the lock-pick set she sometimes used during her undercover work.

  She had gotten a good look at Foster’s door and knew she could pick the lock. It was a standard five-pin tumbler. Nothing fancy.

  Susan curved her head around the door and got a look inside. Marsh was gone. She opened the door and then hurried to the hallway, checking it to make sure it was clear before she pressed onward.

  She moved all the way to Foster’s office silently, removed her picks, and inserted them into the lock. Four quick moves and she heard the lock click open.

  Susan closed the door behind her and then flicked on the light. Luckily the filing cabinets weren’t locked, and they were all labeled alphabetically, but without the last name she would have to go through every single one. She didn’t have time for that.

  Susan opened the first drawer and removed the first file she found, hoping to see a master list, but when she opened the manila folder, she froze.

  Inside the person’s file was a sheet that listed the individual’s name, their background, age, height, and weight, along with a brief description of their affliction. But in the top right-hand corner, attached with a paper clip, was a Polaroid photograph. The same kind that she found in Katy Matthews’s jewelry box when she modeled her lingerie.