“We found fresh footprints around the side of the house,” Mike told me. “Looks like there was more than one person here tonight. Possibly two males and a female. My guess is that Heather showed up and one of the guys confused you with her, so he knocked her out and dragged her into the house. When Bunny saw that it wasn’t you, she decided to leave her calling card on your neighbor’s face.”
“Well, if her point was to scare me, mission accomplished.”
“This was more than your average blowhard threat, Brandy. I’ve seen her kind of rage before and this psycho means business. Oh,” he added, “and don’t even think about asking me not to tell DiCarlo. I really like you, but I want to live to see another day.”
The events of late felt overwhelming, so I did what I always do when I’m stressed to the limit. I scrounged around in the kitchen for dessert.
After stuffing myself sick with Oreos (while sugar doesn’t take away the pain, it does a hell of a job masking it) I was ready to tackle the world again. Mike helped me board up the broken window while Janine reconnected the alarm system. From now on, Mrs. Gentile would just have to do without her midnight popcorn runs.
Mike walked me over to Heather’s to pick up the dog. She had laid out little doggie pajamas for Mr. Wiggles but had never made it back home to put them on him. The thought made me sad. Well, I decided, after all that Heather had been through tonight, the least I could do was change her dog into his p.j.s. It took me fifteen minutes and the little pisher bit me.
Janine insisted that she stay over and I wasn’t about to argue with her. She went upstairs to get ready for bed while I walked Mike to the door.
“Uh, Brandy, can I ask you something?” He stood there looking embarrassed, not quite making eye contact, nervously clenching and unclenching his hands, his weight shifting from side to side.
Uh oh. I know that look. Mike still has a “thing” for me. He tried to fight it, but after seeing me in danger tonight he just can’t contain himself any longer. Oh jeez, Mike’s a great guy, but my heart belongs to Nick. It wouldn’t be fair. Only—look at him. He’s going to be crushed. I need to let him down gently.
“Mike, I’m really flattered—”
“Do you think Janine would go out with me?”
“—that you want to ask my friend out. I’ll put in a good word for you.”
“Thanks, Brandy.”
“Sure, no problem.”
My life sucks.
*****
I woke up in the morning with a dog on my face and a colossal headache. Mr Wiggles stretched and yawned and climbed out of the bed, with Adrian following suit. I was drenched in sweat but preferred that to leaving my window open. Janine had opted to sleep downstairs with the only working air conditioner.
I went downstairs and found her sitting in the kitchen with three bowls of Cheerios. She stuck two on the floor and Mr. Wiggles pounced on one of them. Adrian sat beside the other bowl, waiting.
“I think your dog is sick,” Janine said, through a mouthful of cereal. “He’s not eating his breakfast.”
“That’s because you forgot the sliced banana.”
“Really?” Janine asked.
I picked up the bowl and set it on the table and added some fresh fruit. “He’s very finicky that way.”
“So what do you think of Mike?” I asked, changing the subject.
“What do you mean, what do I think of Mike? He’s a nice guy.” She waited a beat, then said all excitedly, “Omigod, he finally asked you out. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“Not exactly. He’s sort’ve, um, interested in you.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, well, he almost swallowed his tongue trying to ask me if you’d go out with him.”
“You sound mad.”
“Me? That’s ridiculous… okay, maybe a little ego-impaired. But now that I think about it, Neenie, he’s really a sweetheart and I think you should give him a chance.”
“But what about Tony?”
I gave her a look. “Tony is—how can I say this politely—scum.”
“Yeah,” she agreed, good-naturedly. “But he’s my scum. Still, it would be nice to go out with someone who didn’t revolt virtually all of my friends.”
“Yeah, well there is that. So, can I tell him it’s a go?”
Janine nodded, smiling. “It’s a go.”
After Janine left I called the hospital to check on Heather. She answered on the first ring and sounded none the worse for wear. I offered to pick her up, but she told me that wouldn’t be necessary. Seems Heather and the EMT had hit it off last night, and he stuck around after his shift to take her home. As my Bubbie Heiki used to say, “Sometimes good comes from bad.” I was hoping this was one of those times. Plus, even if I did almost get her killed, it was nice being a part of a budding romance.
*****
DiCarlo called me when I got to work. He didn’t sound too happy.
“I heard about what happened to Heather last night.”
“Yeah? Well, I just spoke to her and she’s totally fine. Plus she got a date out of it, so ‘all’s well that ends well.’”
“Damnit, Brandy. They could’ve killed her. Or you.”
I sighed. “Look, Bobby, it’s not like I don’t know that. And for once I didn’t invite this trouble. So could you please put a lid on the lecture for a minute? My day is hard enough. We’re shooting our winter promo. It’s 100 degrees out here and I’m standing on the sidewalk dressed in a parka and ski boots.”
Bobby emitted a small grunt. “Alright, I was going to give you hell, but I guess you’re already in it.”
“Listen, as long as you’re in a forgiving mood, can you please just tell me if Star had an appointment with Olivia Bowen on the 15th? I can get the information myself, but it would be so much easier if you just told me.”
“Christ, you’re relentless. Okay, yes. She did. Happy now?”
“I won’t be happy until I find that kid.” Alive.
After the shoot I stopped by Eric’s office to talk to him. He was very busy playing pinball on his computer, but he waved me in and offered me a seat.
“I can see how busy you are, Eric,” I said, without a hint of sarcasm, “so I’ll get right to the point. I’m looking for a runaway. She’s been living on the streets and she disappeared about two weeks ago. Her case worker was that woman, Olivia Bowen, who was found dead a couple of days ago. I have reason to believe this girl’s disappearance may be tied in to Bowen’s death. I want to look into it, but I need you to back me up if anyone questions my legitimacy as a reporter.”
“That’s never stopped you before.”
“Yeah, well, I’m trying to do things a little differently these days. So what do you say?”
He gave me a long look followed by a heavy sigh. “I say go for it.”
“Really? I mean you’re not even going to try and get me to go out with you first, like you usually do?”
“Alexander, I am so over that. You are entirely too much work.”
That seemed to be everyone’s consensus these days.
“Look, you’re a good employee and the public loves you. And if I’m lucky I’ll get a decent news story out of it. So go on, knock yourself out.”
“Thanks, Eric,” I said, and headed out the door before he decided to change his mind.
“Yo, Alexander,” he called after me.
“Hmm?”
“So, uh, if I were to ask you out again—”
I turned back to look at him. “To tell you the truth, Eric, that would be the best offer I’ve gotten in a long time.”
“No kiddin’?” he wolf-grinned.
“No kiddin’. But the answer would still be no.”
*****
The building that housed New Beginnings Homeless Youth Services was located on Patterson Avenue, approximately eight blocks from the squat where Crystal had been residing. The building was old and tired, but the people that worked there more than made up for it. A tangibl
e quality of limitless positive energy permeated the atmosphere.
I sat opposite Cynthia Mott, the agency’s director, in her windowless office, a no-frills, yet cheerful environment. Pictures of “her” kids as she called the countless runaways that had availed themselves of the services dominated the walls. On her desk sat a basket of trinkets. I picked up a miniature troll doll, the kind one would see on the tip of a pencil, and rolled it in my hand.
“When kids come to my office, they generally like to leave with something. They would feel guilty taking anything of real value, so I keep little things around. They’re insignificant to me, but to them it’s a lifeline.” I remembered what Nick had told me about Crystal taking my Pez dispenser and nodded.
“So, Ms. Alexander, you’d said on the phone that you wanted to do a story on homeless youth facilities.”
I felt like a rat for lying to this woman. I wondered if she knew what kind of power she wielded with her stupid unconditional love and acceptance.
“I’m curious as to why you chose our agency,” she continued.
“Oh. That’s a good question. You see—well, actually, you were mentioned in the papers the other day, in connection with one of your case workers who had an —uh— an unfortunate accident—”
“You mean Olivia Bowen. I’m still reeling from her death. The police have been here and questioned the entire staff. Ms. Alexander, why don’t you just tell me what this is really about? I can see that you want to, and it will save us both a lot of time.”
I breathed an embarrassed sigh of relief. “It’s not that I don’t want to do a story about your agency, it’s just that—well, right now I’m looking for something specific.” I dug in my purse and retrieved a copy of the photo of Star.
“Do you recognize this girl?”
Cynthia Mott picked up the photo and studied it. “Yes, her street name is Star. She was one of Olivia’s clients. She would have been reassigned to a new case worker by now, although, come to think of it, I haven’t seen her around in a while.”
“According to Star’s best friend, she left their squat about two weeks ago and she hasn’t heard from her since. Somebody spotted her getting into a car that same night, but I don’t know if she went voluntarily or not. I was hoping someone here would have some information on her.”
“What makes you so sure she didn’t disappear of her own free will?”
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “But she was very protective of her friend. It would seem out of character that she’d leave without at least telling this kid that she was going. And now her case worker turns up dead.”
“And you think there’s a correlation?”
“I’m asking if you think there’s one.” I leaned forward in my seat. “There’s a young woman on the streets that goes by the name Bunny. She had it in for Star. Co-incidentally, she was seen talking to Olivia Bowen the evening she was killed. Trust me when I tell you this Bunny person is dangerous. I need to find Star before Bunny does, that is if she hasn’t found her already.”
“This sounds like a police matter.”
“Look, you more than anyone should know how sensitive this stuff is. What if I’m wrong and Star is fine. If I get the police involved without just cause, she’s as good as dead on the streets.”
Cynthia nodded in silent agreement. “The sad thing is we know so little about these kids. All we really know is that they’re in pain and they need our help, but most of them slip through the cracks.”
She waved her hand toward the photos on the wall, beautiful faces drawn from every ethnic group, varying in age from pre-teens to early twenties.
“These are all kids I’ve worked with. Some have gone on to lead happy productive lives. Others, you think you’re helping and then one day they’re just—gone.”
She picked out a photo of a young Caucasian girl. “This kid was a 12 year-old street walker when we connected with her through an outreach program, three years ago. Her friends called her Sunny because she always had a smile on her face. I worked with her for almost a year and I really thought we were making some progress. Then one day she didn’t show up for an appointment. I scoured the streets for days. But no one seemed to know what happened to her.
“One day, about a year and a half ago, a police officer came to the agency and showed me a photo of a young girl. This girl. He asked me if I recognized her. I did, but just barely. The cops had found her dead in an alley, a needle sticking out of her veins. She was all of thirteen years old.” Mott smiled grimly. “I keep this picture up there as a reminder of how fragile their lives are.”
There was a tentative knock at the door and a woman who looked to be in her middle 40’s poked her head into the room. “Sorry to interrupt, Cynthia. I just need you to sign off on these so I can get them out in the mail.” Her eyes flickered toward the photo still in Cynthia Mott’s hand and then settled on me.
Mrs. Mott waved her in. “Ellen, this is Brandy Alexander. She’s a reporter, and she’s interested in learning more about homeless youth agencies for a possible story.”
I was surprised that she hadn’t divulged the real nature of my visit, but I appreciated her discretion.
“Ellen is one of our tireless case workers. If you decide to go ahead with your story, she’s the person you need to talk to. Before she came to us Ellen worked in New Jersey, and if my memory serves me correctly, you also put in some time in Chicago and New York, didn’t you, Ellen?”
Ellen leaned in to shake my hand. “Well, there is certainly no shortage of homeless kids, and their needs are the same no matter what city they come from or run to.”
Mrs. Mott returned the picture of Sunny to the bulletin board. “I was just telling Ms. Alexander that as much as we’d like to claim success on every kid that walks through our doors, more often than not, it’s not the case. Do you remember Sunny?”
Ellen studied the picture a moment. “Vaguely… I think she must have left the agency around the same time I’d started. I remember something tragic happened to her.” She shook her head. “Sometimes this job is heartbreaking.”
Ellen slipped a pile of papers on Mrs. Mott’s desk and turned to leave. “It was nice meeting you, Brandy.”
“You too.”
Mrs. Mott called to her as she reached the door. “Ellen, have you by any chance seen Star around recently?”
“Star? Which one is she? I’m sorry, my goal is to know all the kids that come through here, but I’ve got enough trouble keeping track of my own cases.” She emitted a small, embarrassed laugh. “Well, it’s been a long day,” she ended, opening the door. “I’m heading out, Cynthia. Bye, Brandy. Good luck with your story.”
I waited for the door to close behind her. “Do you think it’s possible that Star went home?” I asked.
Cynthia shook her head. “Possible? Yes. But not probable. Well,” she said, standing up, “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help. The police took everything they thought was relevant, and Olivia’s office has already been cleaned out, but I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”
“Thanks. I’d appreciate it.”
Ellen was in the hallway as I emerged from Mrs. Mott’s office. Nodding another goodbye, I felt her eyes on my back as I walked down the hallway and out the door.
*****
I was seriously low on dog food, so I swung by the 7-Eleven to pick up some beef jerky for Adrian. He absolutely loves the stuff and I thought he deserved a treat. While I was there, I grabbed a word puzzler magazine off the rack at the counter. My mother insists it wards off senility. “A puzzle a day keeps the Alzheimer’s away,” she always says, and it must be true because she heard it on Oprah.
When I got to the car I realized I hadn’t eaten in hours, so I took out one of the sticks of beef jerky figuring my dog wouldn’t mind sharing. Then I thumbed through the magazine, zipping past the anagrams because they’re way too hard, until I found a word jumble and kicked back for a few minutes, enjoying my lunch.
As I sat sta
ring at a group of mixed up letters that would eventually, if I was skilled enough, turn into a word, I began to wonder if dyslexic people automatically saw the letters in the “correct” position. I mean, if they normally scrambled up words in their own brains, then if the letters were already mixed up, wouldn’t the opposite be true?
And as I pondered this, something began to nag at the back of my brain, until it shoved its way to the forefront and smacked me upside the head.
“Harmony Valentine is dyslexic! That’s why she had such a hard time reading the word “apple.” Granted, lots of people function quite well with dyslexia, but maybe she was never diagnosed as a kid and didn’t get the academic help she needed.
Okay, Brandy, stop analyzing the state of public school education and think! Maybe Harmony got the letters right, but she somehow rearranged the order in her mind.
I took a pen and pad of paper out of my bag and wrote “SLIMEY 1.” Then I tried several different combinations until I hit on one that made an actual word. “SMILEY 1.”
I punched in the number for the DMV. “Yo, Cousin Glenda. It’s Brandy. Listen, I have a favor to ask you.”
Ten minutes later, Glenda called me back. “You were right on the money, doll. “SMILEY 1” is a silver Dodge minivan, belonging to a James Garner. Ha! Ha!” She let out a big belly laugh. “I wonder if it’s James Garner the actor. I loved him in The Rockford Files.”
“I’m willing to bet it isn’t. Can I get an address?”
*****
If I’ve learned nothing else over the course of the last several months, I’ve have learned that no man is an island, and if I need help I shouldn’t be too proud to ask for it. I was about to embark on what could turn out to be a dangerous mission, and I needed someone I could trust, someone to watch my back, someone I could count on to go to the mat for me. Barring that, I’d settle for someone who wouldn’t try to talk me out of it and would actually enjoy a little adventure. I called Janine.
“Sure, Bran, I’ll go with you. It’s not like I have a job or anything, and it sounds like fun. So, what does one wear on a recon mission anyway? Do I like dress up or can I go in flip flops and shorts?”
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