by Blair Howard
He heaved a sigh and shook his head. “No, it isn’t, but we do what we can. We offer supervised group living that provides housing for the girls while they finish high school. They work here or in approved sponsored employment ten to twenty hours per week. They keep sixty-five percent of their earnings, which is banked for them and they receive training in money management in the hopes that they can make the transition to self-sufficiency. They are taught independent living skills, training on topics such as financial literacy, household maintenance, and health education. As they progress toward economic independence, they begin to pay rent, which increases progressively until they are fully self-sufficient.
“We have room for thirty participants here in the main building where we can provide a fully supervised, home-like environment. We also have the four on-site locations, each one can house up to eight girls. I wish we had more room, but... well, we just don’t have the money.”
“How long do the girls stay with you?” I asked.
“Typically,” Ellen said, “the girls enter the program through our Emergency Shelter, and then, if we can’t reunite them with their families, they transfer into the supervised group living program. From that point on, they are provided with individual, wraparound case management, educational support, counseling, medical treatment, therapeutic recreation, and employment. A girl might be in the program for as long as nine years, or as short as six months. There is no set path to rehabilitation, but when they leave here, they will, we hope, have become responsible and productive members of society, well able to support themselves. We are very proud of what we do here, and of our achievements.”
“So, Doctor,” I said, not directly to either one of them, “just how big of a problem are we talking about? I ask, because I think it ties in with what we want to talk to you about.”
Ellen wrinkled her nose, then said, “Chattanooga is no different than any other city, small or large. For every child we have in our care, there are at least five more still on the streets.”
I shook my head. I knew it was bad, but I had no idea how bad. I wondered if anyone really did.
“That’s... depressing,” I said. “I know you’re both very busy, so I’ll get to the reason for our visit. Let’s talk about Hill House. You still own it, correct?”
“Well, yes,” Sam Draycott said, “but it’s scheduled for demolition, as soon as the police release it, so I’m told.”
“That, I’m afraid, may not be anytime soon. The crime scene unit still has it, and it’s unlikely they will release it until it’s been cleared; it’s a big house.”
He nodded, but said nothing. Doctor Ellen sat with her hands clasped together in her lap; she also had nothing to say.
I flipped the lock screen on my iPad and opened the file.
“You were in residence there from June 2005 until August of 2008, a little more than three years, correct?”
They both nodded.
“And I assume you were doing the same there as here?”
Again, they both nodded. “On a much smaller scale, of course,” Doctor Ellen said. “We were not able to take more than sixteen, seventeen girls at the most.”
“Now,” I said. “I know it was a long time ago, but did you lose any of the girls? Did any of them go missing?”
“Yes, of course,” Sam said. “That’s a huge problem, even here. There are always runaways; most of them return to their pimps. Some, we just lose track of.”
“Do you keep records of your losses, and if you do, do you still have those for the time when you were at Hill House?”
“Of course we do, but we don’t call them losses,” Ellen said. “They are failures; failures on our part. We failed those girls. We are computerized now, but we still have the old paper files. We can let you look at them, here. I’m not going to ask for a court order. I know you can get one, but they are confidential, even those of the girls who went missing. What period are we talking about?”
“I’d like to look at the files for 2005 through 2008, just those who went missing for now. I may need to look at those of the rest of your charges during that period later.”
She rose to her feet. “Please, give me a moment. I’ll have them located for you.”
She was gone for no more than a couple of minutes. “Bonnie will find them, but it will take a few minutes.” She resumed her seat.
“How well do you remember your charges from those days?” I asked.
“Why, I remember them all, vividly,” Doctor Sam said.
Doctor Ellen merely nodded her agreement.
“The girl found under the floor was African-American. She would have been around seventeen, give or take a year. Do you remember anyone like that?”
“I do,” Ellen said. “In fact I remember a great many, but only a handful of them went missing: five or six, maybe. One young lady came to see me just a couple of weeks ago. We try to maintain contract with all of our girls, but it’s not easy. Some, though, do like to keep in touch with us, don’t they, Sam?”
“Would it be possible for me to talk to her, do you think?” I asked.
“It might,” she said, “but I would need to check with her before I gave you her contact information. I’ll do that and let you know.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” I said. “Now. I’d to talk to you about the Reverend Dickerson.”
That brought a smile to Sam’s face. “Reverend? When did that happen?”
“I have no clue,” I said. “I don’t even know if it’s an official title. How well did you know him?”
“I didn’t. Well, I did, but we met only a couple of times. It was just before we took over Hill House.”
“You weren’t friends?”
“Good God, no! The man is a low life; his wife is no better. It’s to them you should be directing your attention, right, Ellen?”
She nodded. “It was always my belief that their intentions toward the girls were less than honorable. I’ll go further: I think he’s a procurer, a pimp.”
“Those are strong words, Doctor,” I said. “Do you have anything to back them up?”
“Other than my gut feelings, no, but I know people, Mr. Starke, and he represents the worst of the worst. I pity any girl who falls into his clutches. I wish to God we, that is Chattanooga, could be rid of him.”
The door opened and the receptionist came in carrying a small stack of files. She placed them on the table in front of Doctor Ellen, who uncrossed her feet, leaned forward, and picked them up.
“Thank you, Bonnie,” she said. “That will be all for now.”
I counted the files as she leafed through them. There were nine.
“You can look at them,” she said, replacing them on the table, “but I can’t allow you to take notes or to photograph them. Now, if you don’t mind, I have an appointment. Have you finished with us?”
“Bob.” I looked at him. “Do you have anything?” He merely shook his head.
“Yes, Doctor,” I said. “That will be all for now, but I may need to talk to you again, if you don’t mind.”
I closed my iPad, rose from the chair, shook hands with the two doctors, and followed Ellen out of the room. She took us to a small conference room and placed the files on the table, and then she picked up the phone, hit the buzzer, and said, “Bonnie. Will you come to the conference room, please?”
Bonnie arrived a few seconds later and Ellen gave her instructions: she was to watch us: no notes, no photos, and then she left, her high heels clicking away along the corridor.
I flipped quickly though the files, discarding those that didn’t fit the profile. I was left with three that did: one African-American girl aged eighteen, and two mixed-race girls, one eighteen and one nineteen.
I looked quickly through the file of the black girl, made mental notes, and then handed it off to Bob. I did the same with other two files, again making metal notes of the names, ages, and general descriptions. I don’t have an eidetic memory, but what I do have is better than most.
I looked at Bob. “Ready?”
He nodded, stacked the files neatly, and pushed the pile toward Bonnie, who was smiling apologetically.
“Thank you, Bonnie,” I said. “We’ll be going now.”
“Did you get it?” I asked as Bob slid into the driver’s seat a few moments later.
He grinned at me. “What do you think? I recorded the whole damn interview, and every page of the three files. I also have the visit with the Dickersons.” He waved his right hand at me, exposing the watch on his wrist.
I have one just like it, although mine is more sophisticated than his, complements of the Secret Service and Senator Linda Michaels. It’s a fully functioning wristwatch, with a few high-tech extras, including video and audio transmission. The range is about a half mile, more than enough to reach the receiver unit and its digital recorder in the trunk of Bob’s car. It’s one of those expensive little toys that more than pays for itself, as it did today.
“So,” I said. “What did you think of them?”
Bob is one astute son of a bitch. He can read people like no one I ever met. I trust his judgement, implicitly.
“Well, I tell ya, Harry. I don’t like either one of ‘em. They were way too smooth. Couple of high-class snakes, if you ask me. He couldn’t look at either one of us, an’ I get the feelin’ she’s a cold fish. Sophisticated, both of them, and obviously good at what they do, and they seem to have a genuine affinity for their work, but they weren’t completely forthcoming. Both of ‘em were guarded, careful with their answers. I don’t like ‘em.”
“Yep, I noticed it, too, especially when I asked about the Dickersons. He was obviously lying. He’s knows them better than he cares to admit. That photo on the wall of the waiting room proves that. By the way, did you get pics of the photos?” Stupid question. Of course he did.
He didn’t bother to answer. He just turned his head and gave me a big grin.
Back at the office, he parked the car, retrieved the digital unit from the trunk, handed it to me, leaned heavily on his cane, and limped painfully into the office. I handed the unit to Tim, told him what I needed, and signaled Bob to join me. Together, we sat back and enjoyed a large measure of Laphroaig scotch whiskey, ice only, no water. It had been a good day, even though it was still raining hard. Then I had a thought.
“Oh shit, Bob. We forgot to go to the rental company.” I looked at the glass in my hand. It was empty. “Damn it. Can’t go now.”
“Hey, man. I’m sorry. It completely slipped my mind.”
“No worries. I’ll think of something. If not, I’ll sleep here, on the couch. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
Chapter 10
It was after six when they all finally left the office and I was alone. I’d had just one more large Laphroaig and was feeling no pain. I looked at my watch: six-fifteen. Hell, she’s still on the set. Oh, what the hell.
I hit the speed dial on my iPhone. “This is Amanda. Please leave a message.” I hung up. Damn it.
I poured another Laphroaig, just a small one. Well, maybe not so small. Damn it, I was hungry. I know. I’ll order pizza.
No sooner had I done so than my iPhone rang.
“Harry, you called. What’s up?”
“Hello, Amanda. Nothing now; I fixed it.”
“Fixed what? What’s wrong?”
“I told you, nothing. My car’s in the shop. Some asshole did a number on it with a screwdriver and I have no transport. I thought you might have liked to pick me up and we could have gotten something to eat. That’s all.”
“Where are you, Harry?”
“At the office, but....” She hung up! Damn it, Amanda. I hate it when you do that.
She arrived some thirty minutes later. I had already unlocked the door for her, and the gates to the lot. She was bundled up like a damn Eskimo. A huge, white, knee-length parka, white leather gloves, a huge wooly hat that covered her ears, and big rubber boots. I don’t know whether it was the Laphroaig or what — I was by now certainly three sheets in the wind — but when I saw her come clumping in the door to my office, I burst out laughing.
“Screw you, Harry Starke.”
“Yes, please,” I said, “but have some pizza first and there’s some wine in the fridge; white and red, help yourself.”
I leaned back in the big chair and watched as she divested herself of her outer layers. Oh my God. She is one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen.
The weather outside was dreadful, about as bad as it ever gets in Chattanooga, except for when it snows, but underneath all of the outer layers, she was dressed for summer. She was wearing a powder blue, woolen dress, so thin and light you could almost see through it. What she had on under that I had no idea, but I had a feeling I would soon find out.
Again, I don’t know if it was the effect of the drink, but there are times when I’m with Amanda that I think I’m in love; this was one of them. She’s a very rare breed. She knows who and what I am and puts up with my catting around, not that I do very much of that anymore, not since she and I became an item, that is, but once in a while.... Well, you know.
“Harry. You’re drunk. What the hell happened?”
“Drunk, my dear? How can you say that? Wasn’t it Dean Martin that said, ‘You’re not drunk if you can lie on the floor without holding on?’“ I stood up, held my arms wide. “See?” I said. “No hands.”
She smiled, and began to turn.
“Wait,” I said. She waited. I took a step forward and wrapped my arms around her. How the hell she managed to hold me up, I don’t know.
“Damn it, Harry,” she giggled. “You are drunk. Back off. Sit down. I need the bathroom and I need something to drink. I’ll be back.” I’ll be back? Who was it said that? Ronald something. Or was it Harold? Couldn’t have been. Hell, I’m Harold. Screw it. Somebody said it. Eh, who cares?
“Harry? Harry!”
“What?”
“Wake up, you ass. I’ve only been gone a minute.”
I grinned up at her. “Me, too, honey.”
I think I began to sober up around nine o’clock that night. I remember Amanda was watching the tail end of O’Reilly on Fox, and that I was as thirsty as the devil. She looked round at me, obviously disgusted.
“Go get a shower, you ass, and change clothes. You stink.”
Fortunately, I was able to do just that. I have a full bathroom next to my office, and I keep several changes of clothes in the closet.
She was right. I did need the shower. I turned up the heat. The water was so hot it all but blistered my skin, but it worked. Ten minutes later, I was new man.
“Hey,” I said, as I walked back into my office. “Did you leave me any pizza? I’m starving.” Again, I was struck by how beautiful this woman was. Even after a full day’s work, she was stunning.
“Yes. I put some out for you, and some coffee. No more booze, please?”
I nodded. “No more. I promise.”
I had barely swallowed my first mouthful when my cell phone rang. I looked at the screen, but didn’t recognize the number. I thumbed the lock and took the call.
“Harry Starke.”
“Harry. It’s Benny.”
Benny? Benny... oh, okay.
“Benny Hinkle?”
“Yeah, that Benny.” Sarcasm. Not like Benny.
Benny Hinkle is a weird character. He owns and runs a downtown bar, the Sorbonne, a nightclub. It’s a dark, sleazy cavern inhabited by Chattanooga’s night crawlers, weirdos and freaks, and by many members of the underworld and, at times... by me, though I don’t frequent it quite as often as I once did. Benny’s a strange little worm, a fat little bastard, bald; an unctuous, unkempt slob with a penchant for making money. He’s a night crawler, a fat little vampire who ventures out of the depths of his cave at the rear of the tavern only after sundown, to suck the money from a gullible younger generation via watered booze and food of questionable age. And he’s calling me?
“What do you want,
Benny?”
“I have a nugger of information you might be interested in.”
“Nugger? Don’t you mean nugget?”
“Whatever. Do you want it or not?”
“Depends on what it’s going to cost me, and how important it might be.”
“Oh, it’s important, and it’s not gonna cost you a nickel. I had a friend of yours in here a few minutes ago, Tony Carpeta.”
“Carpeta? What did he want?”
“He wanted you, Harry. Wanted to know if I’d seen you lately.”
“Did he say why?”
“Nope, but he looked mean and he wasn’t alone. He’s found a new partner since you offed Gino. Some big Mexican dude. Goes by the name of Jesus. Nasty-lookin’ bastard. Tony gave me a number to call if you was to come in.”
“Hmmm. Why are you telling me this, Benny? It’s not like I’m your soul mate.” Oh god. Did I really just say that?”
“I dunno. Figured you’d owe me one, is all. Now you do, right?”
“Depends on what you figure the tally might be, but yeah, I owe you one. Thanks.”
“Yeah, same to ya. I’m already regrettin’ it. I just know it’s gonna come back to haunt me. Bye, Harry. I’ll be in touch.” He disconnected, leaving me with the phone still at my ear, staring at the remains of the pizza.
“Harry,” Amanda said. “I heard some of that. I heard the name Carpeta. What was it about?”
Tony Carpeta. That means Sal De Luca. That’s not good.
“Nothing for you to worry your sweet head about. It seems that Sal is looking for me.”
She clapped her hand to her mouth and gasped. “Oh my God. That’s awful. What does he want?”
“No idea. Well, yeah, I do. I went to see the Dickersons today, and during the conversation, Sal’s name came up. I brought it up. It wasn’t well received, to say the least.”