I let out a small breath, startled that I could see it, a small white fog in the air. I clenched my fists, and then unclenched them one finger at a time. I had to be calm for this meeting, because no matter what happened, I couldn’t change Jimmy’s circumstance quickly.
I didn’t even know what I wanted to do.
I pivoted, and headed down the narrower hallway that led to the principal’s office. It was even colder here, with frost on the inside of the windows that lined the hallway’s left side.
The principal’s door was closed. The word “Administration” had been stenciled on wood so old that it had split at the bottom. Well, the principal wasn’t keeping any of that money for himself, that much was clear.
I pushed the door open, startling the heavyset secretary behind the desk. Unlike the women in Laura’s office, she wore no makeup and she didn’t have her hair in the latest style. In fact, I had a hunch she hadn’t changed her look in twenty years. Her hair was pulled back into a bun, and covered with straightener, which made it shine in the fluorescent lights.
“Yes?” she asked blandly. She hadn’t remained startled for long.
“My name is Bill Grimshaw,” I said. “I would like to see the principal.”
Her expression softened. “You’re related to Lacey? I was so sorry to hear what happened.”
I resisted the urge to close my eyes. This was precisely what Franklin hadn’t wanted; he hadn’t wanted anyone to know what happened to Lacey. But I supposed, it was inevitable. If he had come to confront the principal, then the principal would tell his secretary.
“Thank you,” I said.
“You do know that Franklin Grimshaw, your—”
“Cousin,” I said.
“—was here this morning. He’s Lacey’s father.” She said it as if I didn’t know that. Or perhaps she was trying to point out that Franklin’s appearance was more germane than mine.
“My son, Jimmy, was the one who figured out what was going on, and called for help.” I kept my words deliberately vague, in case Franklin hadn’t told the staff here all of the details. But I also wanted everyone to know that Jimmy had been in danger as well.
“Oh, my,” the secretary said. “And he’s such a sweet thing.”
I was surprised that she knew Jimmy, and she saw the surprise on my face.
“He came in here last fall to find out what he needed to do to get into Yale,” she said. “I thought it was very cute and a bit premature.”
To my surprise, a lump rose in my throat. That damn kid. Used to doing things on his own, and getting them done. I had told him not to worry yet about Yale, so he had come here to find out what else he could do.
“May I see the principal?” I asked.
She sighed. “He’s had a busy day.”
“I’m sure,” I said.
She leaned over and spoke into the intercom. “Bill Grimshaw is here to see you. He’s James Grimshaw’s father.”
I couldn’t hear the garbled answer, but she nodded at me.
“He says go right in.”
I did. The heat was on in here, making the room stuffy. I hadn’t noticed the temperature in the reception area, so it had to have been warmer than the hallway.
The principal stood over his desk, moving papers. He looked up at me, and his gaze went to the scar on my cheek. But he didn’t look frightened or even worried by it. He had probably seen a lot worse down here.
He extended his hand over the desk. “Gerald Decker.”
I took his hand and shook it. “Bill Grimshaw.”
“Franklin was here,” Decker said. “He told me what happened. I’m very sorry.”
“I’m very worried,” I said. “It was easy for Lacey’s attacker to target her. I’m convinced he’s done this before.”
Decker sighed. “I called the police again this morning. I’m aware of that hotel and its clientele, and I want something done. Even though they took my name and put the complaint on file, I’m sure nothing will happen.”
“Then we need to do something,” I said.
“I’m open for suggestions.” He finished stacking a pile of papers. He glanced at them, then back at me. “I’m sorry. I’m distracted. I was up well after midnight last night. The upcoming strike vote has me concerned.”
I didn’t care, at least at that moment. I had cared two days before, but a strike was the least of my concerns at the moment.
“Franklin approached you about the gang troubles we had a year ago. He told me that you had set up a plan for teachers to monitor the doors during their off hours.”
Decker sighed and sat down. “I did. But in this cold, I can’t have anyone sit in our hallways. It’s either pay the heat or pay four teachers. I opted for teachers. That’s what the teachers don’t understand. We don’t have the money to pay them more.”
I sat, too. This man was exhausted, overworked, and given an impossible task. I didn’t want to feel sympathy for him, but I did.
“Look,” he said. “We’re dealing with the gang problem every day, particularly in the junior high school. I’ve expelled half the eighth grade class. I’d love to have guards. Then kids wouldn’t show up with guns or knives or brass knuckles. I have kept the heat on in those hallways, just so that teachers can report the drug deals if they see any, and they do, almost every day. Some of the teachers are scared to tell me about it, because they’re afraid of retaliation.”
I clutched my knees. “I didn’t realize it was that bad.”
He opened his hands, and shrugged. “We’re in the middle of the Mighty P. Stone Nation here. Kids think it’s glamorous to join, or they need money to help their parents pay rent. Or they see their siblings getting support from the gangs. It’s a lot to fight, and I don’t have the resources. So I’ve concentrated on keeping the gangs out of the grade school.”
“I don’t remember this from last year,” I said.
“It has gotten worse in the past year. I’m sorry, Mr. Grimshaw. I thought the hotel was the least of our problems. I believed that the men stayed at the hotel and we only had to worry about drugs moving over. I had no idea they were preying on our girls. I’m not even sure what to do about it.”
He looked defeated.
“My kid wants to go to Yale,” I said, surprising myself. “We were visiting campus last summer, and it’s become a goal for him.”
Decker smiled. “I remember. Mrs. Helgenstrom sent him in here one day to talk about it.”
“If he stays here, he’s not going to be able to achieve that goal, is he?”
Decker’s smile faded. “Not all the schools in the Chicago Public School District are equal, as you probably know. I understand that you and Franklin have started an after-school program. That’s a smart move.”
It was a long way to say that Jimmy had no hope of Yale if he stayed here. And Decker couldn’t keep the gangs out of the junior high. Or the drugs.
Franklin was right: Lacey had to stay away.
And I had to do something—not for the school—but for Jimmy.
I nodded. “Thank you for your honesty.”
I stood and was about to leave, when I remembered my other reason for coming. Decker wasn’t the only one with a sleep deficit. Mine had slowed me down all day.
“If Jimmy and Keith hadn’t called me,” I said, “Lacey might have disappeared.”
Decker moved some of the papers. He wouldn’t meet my gaze. “I know.”
“You know I am an investigator.”
He nodded.
I continued, “I would like to see your records. How many girls around Lacey’s age have gone missing in the last few years?”
He rubbed his mouth with his right hand, then leaned back. “It doesn’t mean anything, you know. Girls, going missing. I hate to sound crass, but we’re in gang territory. The girls get pregnant, they drop out and move in with their boyfriends. And for the past three years, a lot of them have headed to San Francisco or Madison or Ann Arbor or other hippy places, thinking that th
ey’ll find a better life.”
Exactly what Mrs. Pellman had told me. I wondered if she had gotten that response from Decker.
“How many girls have you lost?” I asked.
“We didn’t lose them,” he said somewhat defensively.
“I mean, how many no longer attend school,” I said.
“I assume you mean girls that no longer attend and we don’t know why,” he said.
I nodded.
He slid more papers around. “We lose about twenty a year. They hit puberty, and then they’re gone.”
“From the junior high,” I said.
He shook his head. “From each class. In the sixth grade, we lose about two or three, but when you get to the seventh grade, we’re losing at least ten out of a class of four hundred. By the eighth grade, we can lose as many as fifty.”
“Fifty,” I said. “Girls?”
“A fourth of the class if we’re talking girls and boys. The boys drop out sooner, because they usually have to earn money for the family.”
“A hundred kids stop coming to school by the eighth grade.”
He shrugged, as if he didn’t care. But he looked away from me, and then glanced back to meet my gaze.
“I don’t know what to do, Mr. Grimshaw. Seriously. We don’t have the money for extended outreach programs. We don’t have the staff to search for them. We contact the parents, but often the parents aren’t at the last known address. We have to give up on them and concentrate on kids like your son, the ones who want to learn. We have to hope they’ll get enough out of class to continue forward.”
He sounded doubtful. Hell, I was becoming doubtful.
“Let me see what you have,” I said. “Girls only. Girls who have truly gone missing, where you know someone is looking for them and can’t find them.”
He pulled open a drawer, and gave me a folder. I opened it. It was full of hand-drawn flyers. I didn’t recognize any of the names, but Jimmy might.
“Can I keep this?” I asked.
He nodded. “Maybe you can find them.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
“Oh, believe me,” he said. “I gave up holding my breath years ago.”
TWENTY-ONE
I MET THE KIDS at the front door of the school and walked them to the van. They seemed subdued, except Norene, who couldn’t be subdued if she tried. Jonathan had walked over from the nearby high school, like he did every day. He usually acted as the kids’ guardian for the walk through gang territory. On this day, he had help besides me. Keith held Norene’s hand, keeping her close. He looked fierce.
Jimmy stayed beside me, and he probably would have taken my hand if we weren’t so close to the school.
Once they were all tucked in the van, I drove them to the after-school program. The church which gave us the rooms free of charge wasn’t far away. Even in the deep cold, the kids could safely walk there.
But I didn’t want to chance it on this day.
I promised them all I’d be back later to pick them up. As they filed out, I caught Jonathan’s arm.
“Stay a minute,” I said to him.
He glanced at the door, watching until the kids went inside. Then he turned to me.
I hadn’t realized how much he had grown in the past year. He would be sixteen in the summer, and he had grown as well. His face was angular, like his father’s had been when I met him in Memphis, almost twenty years ago now.
“I spoke to the principal,” I said. “He told me just how dangerous this junior high is. He mentioned drug deals in the hallway. Is that true?”
Jonathan shrugged. He looked at the door of the church as if it provided answers. A few other kids straggled across the shoveled sidewalk.
“Jonathan, please,” I said. “I’m trying to figure out what happened.”
“Why my sister got raped?” he asked.
My cheeks flushed. I hadn’t realized he knew the details.
“I figured it out,” he said. “It’s not hard. Everybody knows what goes on in that hotel. And you let her go there.”
“I didn’t know,” I said.
“Yes, you did,” he said. “Jimmy says he told you everything.”
I nodded. “I didn’t understand him. I didn’t realize how big the danger was.”
“You’re always so concerned with other people, Uncle Bill,” Jonathan snapped. “You never have time for the people you claim you care about.”
The words hurt, probably because I’d been thinking the same thing. I’m sorry wasn’t the right response. There wasn’t a right response. Not on this, anyway.
“I’m making time now,” I said.
“Yeah,” Jonathan said. “After the crisis. You’re good after a crisis, aren’t you, Uncle Bill?”
I took a deep breath, and handed him the folder that Decker had given me. “Do you recognize any of these girls?”
“Why?” Jonathan asked without opening it. “So you can focus on someone else’s kids again? Because what happened to Lacey isn’t bad enough for you?”
I pivoted slightly in the driver’s seat. Jonathan held the folder so tight that it bent.
“I’m actually trying to figure out who did this, and stop them, Jonathan.”
“Jimmy said you already did.” Jonathan still wasn’t looking at me.
“I think there’s an entire operation hurting girls in that hotel,” I said. “I want to shut them down. I want to shut the hotel down too.”
Jonathan finally turned toward me. “You can make them go away?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I can try. But first I need to know the extent of this thing. That’s why I want you to look at the flyers.”
“Flyers,” he said, flipping open the file. He stared at the top one. “What are these?”
“Girls from the school who went missing,” I said.
He bit his lower lip. “Missing. You mean they were killed?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“If Jim and Keith hadn’t stepped in, Lacey could have died?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t think so. I think she would have been put to work.”
He shook his head slowly. “That doesn’t make any sense, Uncle Bill. She would have come home.”
“They would have moved her out of the neighborhood,” I said. “Maybe even lied to her about her family, said that her family didn’t want her anymore.”
“We wouldn’t—.” He stopped himself. “Lied. Okay. I get it. This is some kind of recruiting station?”
“For lack of a better way to put it.”
“Jesus.” He thumbed through the flyers slowly, then started to hand me some. He would add commentary with the ones he handed me. “She moved out” or “She ain’t never going home again” or “She got a boyfriend who took her north.”
He gave me a dozen flyers. Then he slowed down and stared at one flyer in particular.
It was printed by some kind of printing press. The photo of a pretty girl, her head tilted, a wide smile on her delicate features, looked like a school portrait or a professional shot.
“You know her?” I asked after a minute.
He nodded. “Donna Loring. She—her brother—it was awful.”
“What was?” I asked.
A small frown creased his forehead as he looked at me. “She, um, you know, to her family, she was like a thirteen-year-old Norene. Everyone loved her, and they all thought she was going to be someone. They fought to keep her in school, even when she tried to quit.”
“Why would she try to quit?” I asked, not completely understanding.
“Her brother—he um—he’s one of Jeff Fort’s right-hand men.”
I let out a small breath. Jeff Fort was the leader of the Blackstone Rangers. I’d met him more than once. He was a dangerous man, who was getting even more dangerous as time went on.
“No one wanted her near the gang,” Jonathan said.
“Then she disappeared.”
&nb
sp; He nodded. He ran a hand over her image. He had known her well, then. Maybe even cared for her.
“Her brother was furious. He thought maybe someone had taken her to teach him a lesson. He tore the school up.”
“When was this?”
“October of ’68 maybe? Before you had the gang run-in stuff.”
“That was last April.”
“Yeah, before that. In the fall for sure.”
“So,” I said, looking at his hand, the way his fingers kept touching the edge of the photograph. “Did they ever find her?”
“No. Her brother kept looking. He probably threatened someone for the flyer or something. I mean, it looks professional. Word was around school that she was dead, but I never heard how.”
I reached for the flyer. Jonathan set it beside him on the seat, out of my reach. Then he continued to go through the file.
“Do you believe she’s dead?” I asked.
“There was no retaliation,” Jonathan said. “So if she was dead, no one got blamed.”
Which, in gang terms, was very unusual.
He continued to look at the flyers. He set several others with Donna Loring’s flyer.
Then he handed me that pile. “I know nobody knew what happened to these girls. And if they figured it out, then no one told me.”
He had given me almost an inch of paper. My heart twisted.
“What about those?” I nodded toward the flyers remaining in the folder.
“They’re not anybody I know,” he said. “Maybe Lacey….”
He let his voice trail off. He closed the file folder.
“My dad say how she is?” he asked.
“I haven’t spoken to him since this morning. I was going there next,” I said.
Jonathan squared his jaw as his gaze met mine. “If you hear something about these people hurting girls like Lacey, you tell me. I want to help, okay?”
“It’s not my decision, Jonathan. Your father—”
“I don’t give a damn about my father. I’m old enough to help you,” Jonathan said. “I should help you. I should have helped yesterday.”
I didn’t want to make him that promise. I didn’t dare. I couldn’t be responsible for yet another of Franklin and Althea’s children.
Street Justice: A Smokey Dalton Novel Page 12