by Tom Fowler
Armed with this new knowledge, I looked up everything I could about Vincent Davenport, Melinda, and the whole family. Ruby—or Melinda, or however I should think of her now—told the truth about going to private school. She graduated from Seton Keough, an all-girls Catholic School in Baltimore. At graduation, Williams College offered her a scholarship. Williams could produce no record of her ever attending a class. Something—or someone—caused Melinda to disappear the summer of her graduation. Did the same someone stalk her now?
Melinda was born to Vincent and Sheila Davenport twenty-three years and seven months ago at St. Joseph’s Hospital. Sheila died of cancer when Melinda was ten. Six years later, Vincent married the former Helen McMurray, who had a son three months older than Melinda. They all lived in Davenport’s house for about two years; then, everything went to hell. Melinda disappeared and resurfaced as Ruby, Helen left for places unknown, and her son Jackson cycled in and out of drug rehab centers throughout the state. He no longer lived with Davenport, and his last known address belonged to an expensive rehab facility in Harford County. I called; they said he no longer resided there.
After Melinda left, Vincent Davenport started the Nightlight Foundation. The charity’s website made no mention of his daughter’s name, nor did it specify how long she’d been missing. I wondered if Davenport even searched for her. Something bothered me about the whole situation. Helen Davenport leaves and doesn’t turn up anywhere. Jackson McMurray is in and out of rehab and as far off the grid as his mother. Melinda has some kind of family falling-out and winds up a hooker along Pulaski Highway.
What drove the Davenports apart? Did it have something to do with Melinda being stalked now? I would need to dig into the family and find out. Vincent Davenport was a big player in Baltimore. He’d accumulated a lot of friends in high places. I would need to be careful. He would also have enemies, and maybe I could uncover them.
As I pondered the fall of the house of Davenport, Gloria walked in. She sauntered down the hall and came into the office. “How’s it going?” she said, sitting in a guest chair and smiling at me.
“I’m still hitting my head into a wall with Samantha’s case,” I said. “Ruby’s, however, has been . . . interesting.”
“What do you mean?”
“I snapped a better picture of her last night. This morning, I ran it through the BPD’s facial recognition program. Want to guess who she is?”
“You know who she is?” I nodded. Gloria pursed her lips. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“Her real name is Melinda Davenport.”
Gloria started to say something, then paused and frowned. “Davenport?”
“Yes. As in your friend Vincent Davenport’s missing daughter.”
“Oh, my gosh! You found her!” Gloria got up from the chair. “I have to tell him.”
“No,” I said.
“But he—”
“Knows already.”
Gloria recoiled as if something hit her in the face. “You think he knows?” she said, slumping into the chair.
“I think he must.” I provided her the rundown of the Davenport family history since Melinda’s birth.
“That doesn’t mean he’s aware his daughter is Ruby,” she said.
“It’s likely. The whole situation stinks. His wife and stepson vanished. His daughter is a hooker. Something bad happened in his family. Maybe it was his fault, and maybe it wasn’t, but I’ll bet you my Audi he knows his daughter isn’t really missing.”
“But . . . his foundation?”
“Good for him for starting one,” I said. “I’m sure his rich friends expected no less. I’m glad he’s raised all the money for a good cause, but the whole thing becomes pretty cynical when you factor in his family history.”
“He cares, C.T. He cares about the parents whose children have disappeared. I’ve seen it.”
“Maybe he does. Maybe it’s guilt from his own situation. Look, he’s done good by a lot of people, no doubt. Even if his foundation hasn’t helped find a single missing kid, he’s brought publicity to the problem and given families some hope. It doesn’t mean his hands are clean, though.”
“You think he killed his wife?” Gloria said. She fidgeted in the chair, and Gloria was not prone to this behavior.
“I’m very curious what happened to her,” I said.
Gloria shook her head. “What a mess.”
“It is. It’s a lot deeper than an ordinary hooker getting stalked.”
“What do you think I should do?”
“About what?” I said.
“About his foundation. I’m involved with it. What have I really gotten into?”
“Stay involved. There’s a chance he’s innocent in all this. If not, I’d rather he not have an idea you know what might’ve happened.”
She nodded. “All right. What are you going to do now?”
“Keep looking into the Davenports, I guess.”
“Be careful, C.T,” Gloria warned. “Vincent is a powerful man.”
“I know. I’ve thought about it. I’ll do my best to be discreet.”
“You’re already in trouble, then,” she said with a grin.
“Don’t I know it.”
* * *
The answer to Ruby’s particular puzzle had to lie with her family. She’d gone through a lot even before her home life underwent an upheaval with the addition of a stepfamily. Plenty of people managed these situations without ending up in the sex trade, but everyone is different. Melinda could have experienced a worse time of it than most. I would need to figure this out. For now, I wanted to focus on the stalking angle.
Armed with Ruby’s identity, I could presume her father may be involved in the stalking. Vincent Davenport was certainly wealthy enough to hire someone to keep tabs on the daughter he knew didn’t go missing. The guy let himself be seen, which put a mark against his professionalism, but he drove the Benz like someone who’d evaded pursuit before.
If Davenport knew his daughter walked the streets as Ruby, it meant he also was aware of her pimp, Shade. Shade could be in trouble. Melinda hadn’t talked to him about the situation yet, and I doubted she would. I didn’t relish the idea of conversing with another pimp, but this job forced me to do a lot of things I didn’t enjoy. With no idea where to find Shade, I turned to the BPD’s resources for help.
Shade, real name Donnell Shadrick, enjoyed the amenities of Central Booking on two occasions. The city prosecuted him for being a pimp once but couldn’t make the charges stick. The BPD speculated he “managed” a stable of seven prostitutes and ascribed to him a territory including Ruby’s stomping grounds near the Gold Club. His favorite hangouts included The Wagon Wheel, an establishment like the Gold Club, minus the polish and plus several factors of seediness. I hoped to find him somewhere else as I drove there.
Unfortunately, Shade occupied a table at the Wagon Wheel. He shared it with a massive white fellow who looked at everyone, even the naked dancers, through narrow, distrusting eyes. Way to be inconspicuous. Some people showed no respect for tradecraft. The table featured three large cushioned chairs facing the stage. This left one open. I sat in the remaining chair when Shade’s bodyguard looked in the other direction.
“What the hell?” said Shade from my left.
“Just enjoying the show,” I said. On stage, a moderately attractive dancer peeled off her last scrap of clothing and gyrated to some dreadful rock song. She looked around the assembled patrons with empty eyes, scanning for dollar bills and easy marks.
“Well, enjoy it somewhere else.” The bodyguard, two seats to my left, now fixed his narrowed eyes on me.
“I also came here to talk to you.”
“You a cop?” asked Shade.
“Hell no.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“You might be in trouble,” I said.
Shade snickered. “When I get in trouble, Jacko takes care of things. Why don’t you show the man how you take care of
things, Jacko?”
A small smile broke the line of the bodyguard’s lips as he stood. He must’ve been six-five and close to 280 pounds. I’d seen smaller linemen on football teams. Like a lot of larger guys, he carried too much weight for his frame but also a good amount of muscle. I wouldn’t want to stand—or sit—around and let him hit me. The muscleman stopped in front of my chair and stared down at me. His expression didn’t change. It was more uninterested than menacing.
“Why don’t you sit somewhere else, bub?” said Jacko.
“I have some news for your boss,” I said.
“You can tell me.”
“I think it might get lost in translation.”
Jacko pondered my remark for a second, then pointed at me, putting his thick index finger a few inches from my nose. “You need to beat it, or I’m gonna beat you.”
“Wow,” I said, “pretty clever. You trademark it yet?”
He jabbed his digit into my cheek and pulled it back. “I ain’t gonna tell you again, funny man.”
I grabbed Jacko’s finger and bent it the wrong way. When he tried to recoil, I used my other hand to bar his wrist. He squirmed and thrashed even as he grunted in pain. “Struggling just makes it worse,” I said. “Give me a reason and all I have to do is twist a little harder.” I put some more pressure on his lower arm to drive the point home. “You won’t be pointing at anyone for a while, and you’ll have a broken wrist to complete the lesson. Is this what you want?” Jacko shook his head. “There’s the first smart thing you’ve said. Now sit down and be quiet while the grown-ups talk.”
I let go of Jacko’s hand and arm. He rubbed the sore parts and glared at me. I pointed to the seat he vacated. He walked back to it and sat down. “Like I was saying,” I said to Shade, “I think you might be in trouble.”
Shade looked at Jacko, shook his head, then regarded me. “What kind of trouble?”
“One of your girls might have someone after her.”
“Who?”
“I’m not at liberty to say,” I told him.
“You ain’t telling me much.”
“Let’s say an interested party has the means to keep an eye on her. The logical conclusion there is he knows about you. It means he could be watching you, too. If this man decides to act, he’ll use someone who won’t think twice about putting Jacko down to get to you.”
Shade tried to look tough, but the furrow in his brow and the big gulp he swallowed spoiled the illusion. “You ain’t gonna tell me who it is?” he said.
I shook my head. “It might be nothing. I don’t want to see anyone getting hurt—even you two clowns—because someone harbored a vendetta.”
“What should I be on the lookout for?”
“People you don’t know hanging around.”
“You mean besides you?” he said.
“I mean not out in the open.” The song stopped, and the dancer left the stage. Once the announcer finished talking, the din lowered, and it felt like a smidgen of order returned to the universe. “Someone you see in the shadows watching,” I continued. “A car around more than it should be. Those sorts of things.”
“OK.” Shade nodded. “I’ll make sure we keep our eyes open. What about the girls?”
“I don’t think they would be in any danger.”
“Not even the one with this nutbar looking for her?”
“I don’t think the nutbar wants to hurt her,” I said.
“But he might want to hurt me.”
“I think he would see you and Jacko as part of the problem.” A new dancer came to the stage in a slinky negligee. She wiped the pole down before she started her routine. She probably needed hours to disinfect it properly. Instead, the beginning of the next song overlapped with her disinfecting routine.
“All right.” Shade still sported a frown. Jacko cast his distrusting eyes around, settling mostly on me. “I’m not sure what to do about this news, but thanks for telling me.”
“Sure,” I said, standing up. “Try not to get killed. And stop pointing at people,” I said as I passed Jacko. “It’s impolite.”
I didn’t wait to hear his response.
* * *
Shortly after I got home, Ruby called my cell phone. Even though I still thought of her by her nom de rue, I knew her real name and resisted the temptation to use it. For now. “C.T., some bad shit went down,” she said.
I wondered if my conversation with Shade started a chain reaction. “What happened?”
“I was with a girl, and she got beaten. Someone came up . . . I think he was after me. She got in front of me and ended up taking a pounding. I felt bad, but I had to run.”
“Did you see the guy?” I said.
“No, he wore a mask. He found us in an alley. I don’t think anybody saw what happened.”
“What about the other girl?”
“I came back for her,” Ruby said. “I called nine-one-one and said some crazy guy beat the shit out of her. They took her to the hospital.”
I would probably need to talk to this girl. “I want you to come with me when I talk to her,” I said.
“What am I going to do?” Her voice cracked.
“Not be a target while you’re with me.”
Ruby sighed into the phone. “All right. Pick me up outside the Deluxe Plaza in a half-hour.”
“I’ll be there,” I said.
* * *
I collected Ruby thirty-five minutes later, and we drove downtown to Mercy Hospital. We parked in the garage and got visitor badges in the main lobby. The security guard leered at Ruby the entire time he processed us. She wore a small skirt barely covering her thighs and a thin shirt which could have shipped without its top four buttons. The lace bra she wore underneath poked out all the time.
Ruby knew the name the other hooker would use at a hospital. Maybe they sat around and discussed such things on slow nights. Jeanne d’Arc, a name which should have fooled no one over the age of eleven, shared a semi-private room on the fifth floor. The other patient lay sacked out in the next bed, two bags of medicine pumping into her.
“Joanie,” said Ruby quietly as we stood by her bedside. Her voice took on a tender, soothing quality when she tried.
Joanie’s eyes fluttered open. “Ruby?” she said.
“I’m here.” Ruby squeezed Joanie’s hand. She was a white girl with auburn hair and brown eyes who looked a few years older than Ruby. Her face may have been pretty, but whoever beat her made it impossible to tell. Bruises and swelling dotted her features. She sported a shiner around her right eye; the left one was swollen shut. Someone did a number on her. I clenched and unclenched my fists. If the stalker did this, he needed to answer for one more thing, and I would see he did.
“Who’s with you?” she said.
“He’s been looking into the stalker thing for me.”
“You a cop?”
I stood beside Ruby. About a year and a half ago, when I first started this job, a hospital room with two hookers would have ranked among the last places I thought I’d end up. Ten years ago, it would have sounded like a fun way to pass an evening. Now, the nature of the situation gnawed at me. Ruby came from a wealthy family, and her activities couldn’t have been a secret from her father. Someone, presumably Ruby’s stalker, pummeled poor Joanie. This case went downhill fast, and I still didn’t know if I could step hard enough on the brake. “No,” I said, “just a private investigator who might be able to help.”
“Lot of help you were earlier today.” Joanie’s voice, which a moment ago sounded weary and distant, took on new life with the injection of bitterness.
“What happened?”
“Some guy beat my ass is what happened.”
“Did you see him?” I said.
“He wore a mask.”
“I told him that already,” Ruby said.
Joanie fixed me with her good eye. “Why’d the hell you ask me, then?”
“Because you might have noticed something, or recognized someone, in
spite of the mask.”
“I don’t know who the hell he was, if that’s what you mean.”
“What about by body size?” I said. “Is he built like anyone you know?”
She thought about this for a moment and then said, “He’s a little shorter than you and thicker.”
“Was he white?”
“Yeah.”
“Could you tell anything about his face, like eye color, moustache . . .?”
“For not a cop, you sure ask a lot of questions.”
“I’m trying to figure out who did it.”
“Good luck. Cops ain’t gonna care. A whore gets beat up, she musta had it coming. That’s how they see it.”
“It’s not how I see it,” I said.
Joanie stared at me with her half-good eye. I did my best not to fixate on the swollen one. “I don’t know who did it. He seemed interested in Ruby. Maybe it was a stalker, maybe it was some asshole john. I don’t know.”
I got the feeling Joanie didn’t tell me everything, but I didn’t think I’d get anymore out of her. “If you can think of anything else, Ruby knows how to get hold of me.”
“You keep her safe,” she said. “Ruby’s a good girl. She could get out of this life if she wanted.” Ruby sighed behind me. “You keep her safe from this asshole.”
I nodded. “I will,” I said.
I hoped I could.
* * *
Ruby and I hopped back into the Caprice and left the hospital. “You really going to keep me safe?” she said.
I looked at her as we sat at a red light. Her lips were pursed, and she wore a small, delicate frown. Her lip quivered occasionally despite her best attempts to hide it. “You’re spooked, aren’t you?” I said.
“I don’t scare easily. You can’t survive on the streets if you do. But yeah, this has me pretty spooked. Some asshole looks for me, finds me, then beats the shit out of poor Joanie. And what do I do?” She snorted. “I run while the running’s good.”
“You survived.”