by Tim Ellis
“Go inside,” the little girl said, and then she was gone.
He scrambled up. “Go inside.” What the hell did that mean? That was the thing with dead people: they never gave him the real deal. It was always partial and cryptic. Just once, he’d liked to have one of them give him the whole thing: “Got a pen? Here’s what happened . . .” But they never did.
Butterfly scrutinized him warily. “You’re not crazy, are you?”
Rubbing the curve of his back, he said, “Sometimes I think so.” He noticed that she had a rucksack-type bag with her. “You want to put those things in your bag for me?” he said, pointing to the pile of papers.
“Do I have to?”
“No, you don’t have to, but I’d appreciate it.”
She shrugged and stuffed the things in her bag. “We’ve all got lockers, ya know.”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“Mercy’s is locked, but I can jimmy it.”
She led him to the ladies’ room.
“I’ll wait out here.”
“You can see through doors, huh?”
He followed her inside and watched while she made short work of the thin-metal locker door. It was a full-length locker, but only twelve inches wide. There were two shelves at the top and a bar underneath. Hanging on the bar was a tracksuit, a beige blouse, and a suede jacket. He checked all the pockets he could find, but they were empty. In the bottom of the locker were a pair of jogging shoes with socks stuffed inside and an upright red umbrella. The second shelf down contained items only females kept, and he ignored them. The inside of the door had two photographs stuck to it. One was of a handsome young man with black hair kneeling down in a white NFL jersey that had number 99 on the front. He was holding a black helmet in his left hand. Tom didn’t recognize the strip, but guessed the man was either a pin-up, or a love interest. The other photograph was of a group . . .
“That’s Mercy,” Butterfly said, pointing to an attractive woman with dirty-blonde hair a couple of inches past her shoulders. She wore a light-grey skirt and jacket, and she was standing second from the left of the group. There were three men and two other women with her, and he didn’t recognize the building in the rear. He turned the photograph over, and there was the list of names . . . outside the Lakeside Inn in Lakeside.
He passed the photographs to Butterfly. “Put them with the other stuff, please.”
“I feel like a donkey.”
“You’ll be pleased to hear that you don’t look or smell like one.”
“Great. Are we going now?”
There was nothing else of any note in the locker. “Yes.”
As they walked down the stairs she said, “He took me on because of who my father is. He thought it might do him some good. Now, he wishes he hadn’t, but he’s too afraid to get rid of me.”
“Who’s your father?”
“Senator Raeburn.”
He stopped and stared at her. “The same Senator Deacon Raeburn who’s chair of the Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs Committee?”
“Yeah.”
“Crap!” Franchetti conveniently forgot to mention that.
“I don’t suppose you want to take me with you now, do you?”
He could renege on his agreement with Franchetti. He’d secured Mercy Hebb’s two encrypted files – and searched her desk and locker. Franchetti hadn’t been up front with him, so he didn’t really need to take the girl with him now.
“Let’s see how today goes,” he said.
“Okay, whatever.”
“Listen, ‘Butterfly’ is a bit of a mouthful. I could call you ‘Butt,’ or ‘Fly,’ or –”
“Ya wanna talk with a high-pitched voice?”
“What do people call you?”
“Depends who’s doing the calling. My friends call me – Rae.”
“That works for me, Rae. You can call me Mr. Gabriel.”
“Yeah, right.”
He opened the passenger door of the Dodge for her to climb in, and went to help her, but she moved away.
“Don’t touch me.”
“I was just –”
“Yeah well, don’t.”
His face creased up. He shrugged, walked round to the driver’s side, and climbed in.
“Where we going?”
“To see a guy.”
“Uh huh.”
He reversed out and headed towards the Old Town.
Chapter Three
He drove east along Avenida Menendez, and onto the A1A-San Marco Avenue.
“Who’s the guy we’re gonna see?” Rae asked.
“You ask far too many questions.”
“That’s what reporters are meant to do, ask questions.” She turned her head and grinned at him. “So, who are you?”
“Tom Gabriel. Mr. Franchetti told you who I was.”
“Nah, I mean what do you do?”
“I don’t do anything. I’m retired.”
“And have you always been in a state of retirement?”
“Police detective for around thirty-five years.”
“And now you’re retired?”
“That’s right.”
She offered him a stick of gum, but he declined.
“So, what you doing lookin’ for Mercy?”
“Her mother asked me to.”
“I thought you was retired?”
“I am.”
“Retired people don’t do anything.”
He sighed. She talked too much. He wasn’t used to talking with people for long periods of time. Even when Cassie was alive, he didn’t have long conversations with her. They knew each other so well that they didn’t need to talk. Communication was achieved through body language – a touch, a smile, a nod – or any number of other shrugs, twitches, and winks. Since her death, he’d kept himself to himself. The only person he spoke to on a regular basis was Mabel, and she didn’t answer back.
“Mercy’s been missing for at least two weeks. It looks like she was following a story about children who have gone missing over the past five years, and now she’s gone missing as well. I told her mother I’d ask around. Okay?”
“Okay.”
She sat quiet for less than thirty seconds. “You a private investigator now, then?”
“I suppose you could say that.”
“You got a license?”
He hadn’t given it much thought, but if he was going ‘round chasing Mercy Hebb and asking a bunch of questions, then he’d better get himself one. “No . . . no license.”
“You got a gun?”
“Is there anything you don’t want to know?”
“Probably, but we ain’t got there yet.”
“Tell me about you.”
“Ain’t much to tell. Went through school, went to college, joined the Record.”
“What about your dad?”
“I don’t want to talk about him.”
“Your mum?”
“Died ten years ago.”
“Sorry to hear that. Any brothers or sisters?”
“No.”
“Boyfriend?”
“No.”
“What was your major at college?”
“Journalism.”
“So, this is your big chance?”
“I suppose.”
He turned into Old Mission Avenue and pulled up outside an apartment block – number ninety-three – two-thirds of the way down opposite the mall and Denny’s.
“What’s here?” Rae asked.
“The man I need to see. You can stay here if –”
“I’ll come with you,” she said, opening the door.
Billy Hall’s apartment was on the third floor. Tom had busted him years before for growing cannabis on his veranda, but then decided to turn a blind eye when he realized he could use Billy to bypass the system.
The elevator was “Out–of-Service,” and they had to walk up three flights of stairs. Halfway up the first flight, Tom was clinging to the handrail and panting like a long-
distance runner.
“You want to see a doctor,” Rae said.
“I’ll be all right. I’m just a bit out of shape.”
“A bit? I’d say you were so out of shape you could pass for a piece of abstract art.” She giggled.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
She carried on up the stairs. He took his time and found her sitting on the top stair of the third floor using a gadget.
He sat down next to her, and tried to bring his breathing under control.
“You’re not gonna die on me, are you?” she asked without looking at him.
“Why? Would you be upset?”
“Nah, it’d just mean I’d have to call for an ambulance, answer questions about what we were doing here, and a bunch of other stuff I could do without.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
He peered at the gadget she had resting on her knees. “What’s that?”
“Have you been in prison?”
“A self-imposed prison.”
“Well, you wanna get out more.”
“People keep telling me that.”
“You wanna listen to ‘em. This is a tablet.”
“Okay . . . ?” He shrugged.
“I can do things on it.”
“Okay . . . ?”
“Listen to music, read, play games, write, get on the Internet, and a load of other things.”
“I see.” He’d already lost interest and pushed himself up. “Come on then. Why are you sitting there when we’ve got people to see?”
He walked along the hallway.
Rae followed him.
He stopped outside number seven and knocked.
It took a while, but eventually the door opened. Billy Hall looked just the same as he had the last time Tom had seen him. He was in his early thirties, with thinning, short, black hair, a pasty complexion, and thick, round-rimmed glasses. He wore a green-check shirt and a sleeveless cardigan, even though it was thirty-five degrees outside.
“Mr. Gabriel! I heard you’d retired?”
“You heard right, Billy.”
Billy peered past Tom and ogled Rae. “You’ve brought me a birthday present?”
“Is it your birthday?”
“No, but early and late presents are always welcome.”
“If I thought you were talking about me,” Rae said to Billy, “I’d cut your nuts off and stomp on them.”
“Whatever happened to all those nice, friendly, polite girls, Mr. Gabriel?”
“Gone the way of the dodo, I’d say, Billy.”
Billy backed into the apartment. “What brings you here after all this time?”
“Phew!” Rae said, holding her nose. “It stinks in here. Don’t you ever clean this place?”
The living room was reasonably large for a one-bedroom apartment. Billy had modified the far wall, either side of the veranda door, to accommodate his computers and gadgets. There was a strong stench of cigarettes, cannabis, and body odor. Dust lay on the surfaces like volcanic ash, and empty takeaway cartons littered the floor.
“You’ve brought me a maid,” Billy said. “You shouldn’t have, Mr. Gabriel.” He looked at Rae. “The duster and French maid’s outfit are in the closet.”
Rae’s lip curled up.
Tom pulled the memory stick out of his pocket and held it in front of him between thumb and forefinger. “There are a couple of encrypted files on here. Can you sort them out for me?”
“Does the sun come up every day?”
“I guess it does.”
“Hey . . .” Rae said. She’d wandered out onto the veranda to get some fresh air. “You growin’ your own?”
“Is she gonna be trouble, Mr. Gabriel?”
“No, she won’t be any trouble.” To Rae he said, “You haven’t seen those orange-blossom plants.”
“Maybe I have, and maybe I haven’t. But my memory would get a lot fuzzier if I had some of that orange blossom to take with me.”
“I’m an ex-cop, Rae,” Tom said. “If I find you’ve got any of that crap on you, I’ll drive you to the police station myself.”
She pulled a face and folded her arms. “I can see you’re gonna be a lot of fun to work with.”
“You still a dinosaur with no email?” Billy asked him.
“Haven’t even got a computer.”
Rae’s eyes opened wide. “Now, if I had just a nickel bag of skunk, you could use my –”
“Do you want me to take you back to Franchetti as a reject?” Tom said to her.
Her face and body sagged. “I suppose not.”
“Have you got an email address?” Billy asked her.
“Yeah.”
“I could send the decrypted files to your partner’s email address, Mr. Gabriel.”
“She’s not my partner; she’s just along for the ride. That okay with you, Rae?”
“I suppose so. No skunk, huh?”
“No skunk.”
She turned to Billy. “And if I give you my email address, it’s not an invitation for you to send me filthy propositions or suggestions. If you do, I’m gonna come back here and put your nuts in the crusher. Do we understand each other?”
Billy gave Rae a weak smile. “I think you’ve made your position crystal clear. I love your tattoos by the way. You don’t want to do a photo session, do you?”
She kicked him between the legs.
Billy’s eyes opened wide; he stopped breathing and crumpled to the floor.
After writing her email address on a scrap of paper she’d pulled out of her rucksack and letting it seesaw to the floor next to Billy, Rae headed towards the door. “I’m gonna wait downstairs,” she said over her shoulder.
“I think I’m in love,” Billy said, his face contorting into a mask of pain.
“How long will it take you to decrypt those files, Billy?”
“A week.”
“Do you want me to send Rae back up here to give you another kicking?”
He was curled up in the fetal position with his hands between his legs. “Probably tomorrow morning if you put it like that.”
“Have a good day, Billy.”
“And you, Mr. Gabriel.”
***
“No wonder you haven’t got a boyfriend,” he said to her as he did a u-turn and headed back to San Marco Avenue.
“He was a pervert.”
“Billy’s harmless.”
She laughed. “He’s nutless as well now.”
He grunted. “I’m ready for some lunch. What about you?”
“If you want. Are you paying?”
“I can, I suppose. Doesn’t your father give you an allowance, or something?”
“I said I didn’t want to talk about him.”
“Don’t you live at home?”
“No, I’ve got an apartment on Cordova Street with a view over the Maria Sanchez Lake.”
“Very nice. Does your father –?”
“My father doesn’t do anything for me. I’ve told you a dozen times already, I don’t want to talk about him.”
“I thought your father got you the job at the Record.”
“He didn’t get me the job.” She laughed. “As soon as Franchetti heard who my father was, he couldn’t give me the job fast enough. Where are we going?”
“I’ve got a key to Mercy’s place on East San Carlos Avenue in the Old Town. We’ll have lunch first and then take a look inside the apartment to see if there are any clues about what’s happened to her.”
Rae looked at him. “Got any ideas?”
“You knew her, what was she like?”
“I’ve been at the Record for three months. I seen her maybe two or three times, and apart from saying hello, she never spoke to me. I guess I was too junior.”
He hung a right into East San Carlos Avenue and said, “We both know what could have happened to her.”
“I suppose.”
“But let’s hope not, shall we?”
“Another missing person wouldn’t make a ripple.”
“So, we’re gonna try to find her ourselves?”
“That’s the idea.”
He pulled up outside the Muchas Gracias Diner, and they went inside. It was about half full. The decor was predominantly red and white, and they sat in a booth next to a window. The waitress came over, filled two mugs with coffee, and took their orders. He asked for a Tiger-Rat burger with fries; Rae had the Viper on its own.
“Get those things out of your bag,” he said to her.
She emptied them onto the table.
He put the address book, business cards, photograph, and Post-it Note to one side, and passed half the papers to Rae to make her feel useful. He’d have a proper look through them later to make sure she hadn’t missed anything.
“What am I looking for?”
“Anything to do with missing children, or something that looks unusual.”
“Define ‘unusual’?”
He shrugged, then began shuffling his half of the papers from top to bottom. Nothing jumped out at him. Most of the pages were notes about local events, totally unrelated to the matter at hand. He found three telephone numbers on pages that had been used for doodling and writing cryptic messages, and made a note of them on a blank page in Mercy’s address book.
He waited until she’d finished and then said, “You come across any telephone numbers?”
“A couple.”
He passed her the address book, open at the page. “Write them down.”
The waitress brought their burgers, and they began eating.
In between mouthfuls, he rifled through the business cards, one-handed like a dealer in a poker game. They belonged to other journalists, local businesses, and people in the newspaper game like printers, lithographers, typesetters, and the like. Two of the cards identified children’s entertainers, and he put those to one side. He was sure they related to local events that Mercy had probably covered, but he’d always been suspicious of adults who wanted to spend their whole day with children – it was unnatural. He’d had two daughters, and there were three grandchildren who kept coming ‘round to annoy him, so he knew about kids. Nobody in their right mind would want to spend longer than it took to eat a box of popcorn with children – it was definitely unnatural.