According to his profile, Yaki had started at MIT at fourteen and finished his post graduate work at a bio-tech think tank in New Mexico--all very secret and privately funded—at twenty. By twenty-three he owned his own company that, among other things, was working on developing an organic computer system run by a self-perpetuating culture of designer bacteria. The Environmental Protection Agency, in collaboration with the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta, shut down the project over fear that the culture could escape and start a worldwide plague.
Zaki’s company then moved into more conventional bio-technology research where he amassed a huge fortune, built over the ground-up bones of other companies and associates foolish enough to challenge his products. However, rumors in the intelligence community implied that his first project had never gone completely away. Government collusion was mentioned.
Although still very much involved in business decisions, five years ago Zaki had turned over the day-to-day running of his empire to his long term second-in-command. His press release explained he had become bored with business and wanted to go back to his first love—development. Workers, who had been involved in construction projects on his estate, revealed that the new buildings were private research laboratories.
In an exclusive interview, Zaki conceded he had built a facility where he could ‘dabble’ in experimental technology projects for his own amusement. He even provided the television crew with a tour. The buildings were crammed with the latest electronic equipment, but not a Petri dish or electronic microscope was in sight. The government and the media decided to leave the eccentric billionaire alone.
Bishop was having a hard time making the connection between Tesslovich and Yamazaki Kiriyenko except that Zaki gave lavish parties to which many local movers and shakers, including Tesslovich, were invited. The soccer team, which Bishop hadn’t even been aware Zaki owned, had been on a major winning streak. Bishop didn’t follow Pro Wrestling, since it was just so much bullshit, but he assumed if Zaki owned a high profile wrestler, the guy was probably kicking ass. A recent picture of Zaki showed him next to a race horse draped in flowers. If the horse belonged to Zaki, it was probably a winner as well.
Putting Mouser’s printouts back in order, Bishop tidied them into a neat pile on the table next to his notebook. He pinched the bridge of his nose for a few seconds hoping to relieve what was shaping up to be a doozie of a headache. The glass coffee pot he’d set on the table next to his cup was empty, and he barely remembered pouring the first cup. Leaning his chair back until the front legs left the floor, he reached over his head and fumbled the receiver off the old fashioned, jaundice-yellow wall phone next to the stove. He liked it because the receiver was attached to the phone by a long cord so he couldn’t lose it somewhere in the house like he did his portable phones, and the buttons were on the handset. Letting the chair back down, he pulled his notebook over in front of him and started to dial.
- 10 -
Bishop pulled up in front of Susan Elizabeth Morgan’s house. He always thought of the homes of the people who had hired him as belonging to the most important person in the investigation—the potential victim. So he had called Susan Elizabeth’s house and asked if he could come by and ask a few more questions. Her mother, who had obviously come out of her bout with sedation, seemed both eager for news and reluctant to talk to him. It wasn’t an uncommon mix of reactions when it came to the parent of a missing child. There was always the fear that the investigator was bringing bad news.
Mrs. Morgan had faded visibly from the last time Bishop had seen her. Everything about her was a little more pale and lifeless, like an old photograph bleached by time. In normal circumstances she would be a very attractive, vibrant woman, but loss and worry had taken its toll.
“Do you have any news?” The front door had opened before Bishop made it half way up the walk. He shook his head. There was both resignation and relief in the way she slumped her shoulders at his answer. No bad news at least meant that Susan Elizabeth was still out there to be found, alive and well.
“We can sit in the family room. My husband will be home in a few minutes. Can I get you a cup of coffee or ice tea?”
Bishop accepted the tea, additional coffee was more than he could handle.
“I found another photograph of Susan Elizabeth. It’s a recent one. I think it looks more like her than the other two.”
Bishop accepted the photo gravely, with all the importance it deserved. “Thank you,” he said. “I’m sure this will help. Mrs. Morgan some other facts have come to light since Susan Elizabeth disappeared. I wonder if I could share them with you and ask you what you think they mean.”
“I think you should call me Barbara, Mr. Bishop. Mrs. Morgan always makes me worry that bad news is coming, as in: Mrs. Morgan, I’m so terribly sorry.” Barbara was holding her entwined hands together so tightly that her fingers had gone white. “It just seems more neutral.”
Bishop smiled. It was his reassuring one. He often meant it, like now. “Barbara,” he said gently. “It’s come to my attention that Susan Elizabeth isn’t the only child whose gone missing lately.”
Barbara looked down at her hands, but she was listening.
“The other disappearances were very similar to your daughter’s. And just like in her case, there was little or no mention in the media, no posters, no searches of the woods or neighborhood around the houses. Can you tell me why that is?”
“No.” He could barely hear her.
“No, you don’t know. Or, no you won’t tell me?”
She shook her head.
“Barbara,” Bishop said again. He could barely stop himself from reaching out to untwist the woman’s hands so the blood could come back into them. “Why did you hire me, when you won’t tell me what you know? If you have a secret that will help me get your daughter back, I promise you, unless it’s a crime, I will keep your confidence rather than make the situation worse.”
“My. . . my husband wouldn’t believe it. He wanted . . . he wanted to tell everybody, anybody who could help. He hired you without talking to me about it, but I made him promise not to, not to tell. The police said that was best. They didn’t want you involved. The detective said it was probably okay though, because you couldn’t find your ass with both hands.” A hysterical little giggle escaped her lips. She unwound her fingers long enough to press one hand to her mouth in case another one tried to follow.
“Why did the police want to keep this quiet?”
“Because . . . because they knew what had happened to her.”
“What?” Bishop was startled by the loudness of his own voice. More quietly he said, “Barbara, what are you telling me? Do you know where Susan Elizabeth is?”
“No, but they said she had probably been kidnapped by this religious cult that takes children away to protect them from the evils of the world. They keep them for a while and bless them and then return them to their parents as long as the parents haven’t told. They brought a woman here who had the same thing happen to her child. She said it was true and that her daughter had come back and she was okay. She also warned us not to tell.”
“Do you remember the name of this woman?”
Barbara sighed. “It was all . . . I was very distraught. I’m not . . . I think it was a C--Corrin? Corvin? Corbin? Yes, Corbin. Mrs. Corbin.” She clutched at his sleeve, “Please don’t tell. Please. They’ll never let her come back if you tell. If Suzee doesn’t come back to us I don’t know what I’ll do.” She burst into tears.
Bishop pulled tissues out of a box on the coffee table, a place it probably had never been kept when Susan Elizabeth was at home.
“I’m very glad you told me, Barbara,” he said patting her hand. “I know it was very hard to do it. I promise you I won’t betray you. I just want what you want—to have Suzee come back home.”
Back in his car he opened his notebook to the list of missing children. Jennifer Corbin, age nine and a half, was the third entry. As he was pulling
away, Susan Elizabeth’s father pull his car into the driveway and hurried into the house. He and his wife were about to have a lot to talk about.
- 11 -
The Children’s Shelter Project was open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Sister Mary Catherine preferred the hours between seven p.m. and three a.m. She cared most about the homeless kids that came out at night because they had nowhere to go. The wannabes, the kids who came in from the suburbs, or skipped school to hang out on the streets because it was cool didn’t interest her. She wanted the hardcore street kids, the ones who stole and lied and sold their bodies to survive.
Bishop had known the Sister for a long time. Even when he was a street cop he’d bring her kids, the ones who’d never survive in juvie, the thirteen-year-old baby hookers who might still be saved, the hard cases for whom jail would just be a graduate course in crime. She took them all, and gave them as good as she got, but always with an underlying compassion. She was impervious to being played.
If God was keeping score Sister Catherine was probably on the losing team, but she considered every small victory a solid win.
Bishop found her in the shelter lobby in the middle of what his politically incorrect self would have called a Mexican Standoff. Toe to toe with a teenage gang banger, she was arguing for possession of a thin, very pregnant girl of about sixteen. The girl’s arms were covered with scabs and she was shivering with need. He boyfriend wanted her back on the street so he could fix them both up.
Sister Mary Catherine was a nun, but she was also a gangly six foot blond with the build of a natural athlete. Dressed as usual, in sneakers, jeans and a Loyola sweatshirt, she and her tattooed opponent were screaming into each other’s faces, neither of them giving an inch.
Bishop had no gentlemanly impulse to step in and save the Sister. He’d seen her deck a pimp who’d pulled a knife on one of her kids with a straight right to the chin, then toss him unconscious into the gutter. He wouldn’t have bet on the banger’s chances once Cate became really pissed off. He waited quietly until the banger just gave up and left.
Catherine gave him a nod and motion of her head to follow her into the shelter as she herded the girl through the locked doors and into the care of the volunteer doctor on duty.
“Frank,” Catherine said. “Long time no see.”
“Yeah, the PD and I kind of parted company. I’m private now. I don’t get down here so much anymore.”
“You were one of my best herders, Frank. You had a real feel for these kids. You could always volunteer.”
“Umph. Straight shot into the old guilt basket, Cate.”
“Just trying to save your soul, Frank.”
“Yeah, I’m still working on that ‘road to hell’ thing.”
“I’m pretty busy here tonight, Frank. If you just stopped in to say ‘Hi’, I appreciate seeing you, but I have to get back to work.” She started to move away from him toward the large room that served as a meeting room, lounge, holding tank and over-flow crash pad.
“I came about your missing kids, Catie.” Catherine turned on her heel. He had her attention.
“Do you have some word on them? Do you know where they are? The cops won’t even return my phone calls anymore. Bastards!”
“Sister!” Bishop was only feigning shock; he’d heard Sister Catherine’s complete vocabulary on more than one occasion. She shrugged and looked at her watch.
“I’ll give you ten minutes, Frank. Let’s go into my office.”
Sister Catherine’s office was more like a broom closet. Bishop always thought of nuns as neat and organized—one plate, one cup, one pair of shoes type of thing. Sister Mary Catherine not only defied that stereotype, she exploded it. Her tiny cubicle was jammed with books, papers, half-drunk cups of coffee and articles of clothing. The visitor’s chair contained a hooded, winter parka and two pairs of shoes which she scooped up and literally stuffed into an already bulging closet. “Donations,” she explained.
Indicating that Bishop should take a seat, Sister Catherine dropped her lanky frame into her own rump sprung office chair and fixed him with her Mother Superior stare. It always made Bishop sit up a little straighter, even though he and Catie were about the same age.
“I’m working on a disappearance,” he began. “A six-year-old girl kidnapped out of a park while she was supposedly being watched by her nanny.” He could see Sister Catherine was about to interrupt him with a response. He raised a hand. “Hear me out,” he said. “This comes around to your missing kids.”
“It turns out that this isn’t the only kid that’s been snatched right out from under the noses of their loving family, but the weird thing is there’s no media coverage of any of the disappearances. Your kids, even though they fit another profile because they’re a bit older and homeless, fit into the same time frame. I think the two might be connected.”
Sister Catherine sat forward. “Why?” she asked.
“Call it a hunch. But I really think it’s too much of a coincidence to ignore. What I need you to help me figure out is what all these kids had in common. We’ve got eight kids under twelve from affluent families, and then we have I-don’t-know-how-many, street kids all in the same time frame.”
“Twenty-two,” Sister Catherine said.
“What?”
“Twenty-two street kids I know of over the last five years, who either came to the Shelter Project or had a friend come here looking for them after they disappeared. At least that many. I’m afraid there’s more.”
“Do you have any idea why somebody would want to snatch homeless kids off the street?”
“Well, unfortunately there’s a lot of reasons. Although they think they’re pretty smart about surviving, runaways are really pretty vulnerable to adult predators, especially if they’re hooking. We also have the occasional OD, stabbing, like that. Sometimes I don’t see them for a while because they’re in jail. That’s why I went to the cops—to see if any of them had been arrested.”
“Do you think they might have just moved on? Headed off to another city, greener pastures?”
“My gut feeling is no. One of the older ones even worked at the shelter. Jamal Perry. He also slept here in case there was a problem, or somebody rang the night bell. He was eighteen which is pretty much our age limit, but he was six months clean and sober and didn’t want to be out on his own where he might slip. He was a really great kid. He spent his off time canvassing the squats and alleys for the first few of our missing kids. He always came back with two or three new runaways in tow, but never the ones we were looking for. He disappeared not too long after we started to be really concerned about what might be going on.”
“Do you have any information on the kids, pictures, anything?” Bishop already knew the answer to this question.
Sister Catherine gave him a long look, then reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a folder. Inside were sixteen photographs with information written in pen on the back. “We try to photograph each kid that stays here even one night,” she said. “Sometimes we need it to identify a body.” She fanned the pictures out for Bishop. Sixteen young faces stared back at him with expressions that ranged from scared to solemn to defiant. One kid just looked blank, as if the experiences in his young life had rendered him numb and hollow.
“Can I take these?”
She shook her head, scooping the photo back into a pile. “These are mine but I made some copies for the cops. I’ll give you those. Are we done?”
“Two more questions: Do you know the name Nicolai Tesslovich?”
Cate surprised him. “Sure.”
“I mean personally, not from newspaper coverage of a trial or something.”
“Yes.” Sister Catherine made a point of checking her watch. “He does some volunteer work for us. He renegotiated our lease and he helps us with emancipation applications and the occasional foster placement. Some of the foster homes these kids have been put in are worse than being on the street—sexual abuse, physical violence,
bullying by older kids—some kids have even been pimped out by their foster parents. The only way we can keep them out of the system is to get them declared an emancipated minor. I was thinking of asking Nicolai to be on our board of directors.”
Bishop bit his tongue. He wasn’t going to tell Sister Catherine that Tesslovich was either a demon or involved in some strange set up that made it seem like he was one. That could come later. “How about Yamazaki Kiriyenko?”
“Nicolai introduced me to Mr. Kiriyenko at a big fund raiser we had for the Shelter. He gave us a very generous contribution and even some free computers and software to replace the dinosaurs we were working on. He seemed very nice.”
“Has he ever been to the shelter?”
“No, and I can’t quite imagine that happening. A guy who wears $10,000 suits isn’t about to rub elbows with filthy street kids who’ve been sleeping in dumpsters. I hope he’ll keep us in mind as far as the money goes though.”
“What about Tesslovich?”
“Oh, yeah, he’s been here. He’d rather come here than have our kids in his waiting room.” She smiled. “We always try to give him the cleanest office and a decent chair.”
Bishop stared at his notebook. He was going to have to think about this. He flipped it shut. Sister Catherine slid an envelope across the desk to him. Several papers followed in its wake, floating to the floor. As he started to lean over to pick them up she said, “Don’t bother. It’s a losing battle, I’ll get them later.” She stood up to see him out.
“Are you really going to look for my kids, Frank?”
Bishop nodded. “I think it’s all connected. I’ll do my best.”
“We can’t pay you anything, you know.”
Bishop looked around at the well-worn lobby and shabby, second- or third-hand furniture. Stuffing was coming out of more than one couch and the tables had seen generations of shoes, cups, plates, knife points, ball point pen tips--whatever kids could manage to put on them or carve in them.
Raptor: Urban Fantasy Noir Page 5