“Yes.”
“What happened the last time she disappeared for a few days?” asked Mr. Kent.
“Last time she was gone a day and a half but left us messages. Even when she . . .,” her voice trailed off again, then picked up, “was indulging, she still called me. I knew she was OK even if she was not OK, if you get my meaning. But this time I’ve heard nothing, and with the latest news of overdoses . . .” She left the sentence unfinished with a glance toward her young daughter.
“I understand,” said Mr. Kent. “Maddie, Aden, head back to the house. I will be along in a few minutes.”
“What are you—” began Aden.
“Go, Aden. Now.”
Mr. Kent’s tone left no room for argument. Aden frowned but remained silent. He tugged at Maddie’s sleeve and started walking away. After moving along fifty feet or so, he glanced back. For the third time, he saw his father’s wallet in one hand and the other hand holding out a business card.
“Well, Mad Maddie. It looks like you’re not the only one with something to hide.”
“Don’t call me that, jerk.”
The rebuke was listless. Maddie’s mind was a million miles away. All she could see in her head were two young girls, one black with curly hair, the other white with straight black hair, mixing together. Their races were different, each from a different time, but both held the same look: fear, hopelessness, and anguish. Someone else had helped her younger self. She did not know how, but Maddie made a silent vow to help young Tamara get her sister back.
Promise made, she glanced over at Aden. The scrape on his face glowed an angry red. Without understanding why, she smiled, then elbowed him.
“Thanks for jumping in this time.”
Aden shrugged. “Anytime.” When he saw the slight curve of a smile on Maddie’s face, his head sank into his shoulders a bit. “Why do I think I’m going to end up regretting that promise?”
Chapter Forty-Four
Officer Mike Preston was not a happy man. After twenty years on the force, he could say with cold honesty that following the family profession had been a mistake. His pay sucked, even with a union behind him. Union salary demands could not keep pace with the cost of living in Colorado—not in the affluent enclave where he kept his family. Of course, he did not work where he lived. That opportunity had flown the coop years ago. No, he was stuck working the seedier side of town. It was not South Side Chicago or Detroit, but it was still where the left-behinds were relegated.
Crime was not high here, but steady. If being a cop was a business, then he had plenty of customers; except no one cared about the help he gave. On Monday, the woman who called for your help would be the same one cursing and spitting at you on Thursday. The true horrors, however—well, those were delivered by the kids.
They were unsupervised. They were smart-mouthed and disrespectful. Every single one tried to use a phone on cops to give them a TMZ or YouTube moment. He worked hard to not shy away from doing his job and to do it right. But it was difficult and on days like today, it did not seem worth it.
In isolation, a bunch of teenagers fighting was not important. But this had been the fourth knockout game in three months. Previous videos had been uploaded to the web under new YouTube account names with burner phones. They could not be traced back to anyone. Today had been the first time a solid witness was available, and more than one.
Preston turned his eyes from the report he was writing on his computer to the business card on his desk.
“Adrian Kent, Supervisory Special Agent, FBI”
Preston twisted his mouth like he was constipated. He hated feds. All street-level cops did. They threw their weight around like male bucks in the rut. They meddled, interfered, commandeered resources, and if you challenged their “jurisdictional” prerogatives, made your career hell.
No, he did not need nor want the career headache of being the one who made the FBI finally descend onto his precinct. That would be the law enforcement equivalent of a citizen allowing a cop into his house without a warrant. Even if they did not find what they had come for, they would find something. He flung the card to the side in disgust.
He would omit the girl’s name and chalk up the case as a loser. Enough people had seen her. Without her in the report, even a public defender would have a field day in court. He’d have to talk with the other officers to make sure they all omitted her name or used “Jane Doe.”
But first, Preston opened another window. He needed to check the background of the Spanish kid. He was sure Kent would not follow up on that, but it was safer if Preston at least made the inquiry.
He put the information in the system for the check, and then as an afterthought, decided to put in the girl’s name as well. Milliseconds after hitting the enter button, a restricted status flag popped up on the name “Madison Jennings.”
“What the hell?” Now, Preston was pissed. The FBI had something going on in his backyard and had not informed anyone. He sat back and considered his next move. A nagging voice told him to leave it alone.
His eye twitched at the notion.
“Nope. No siree bob. Don’t care, ‘Special Agent.’ You going to play in my sandbox, you better let me know first.”
Mind made up, he composed a short email asking a hot-to-trot female Homeland Security agent he had met at a conference on terrorism to run background on the girl. He promised her dinner at the place of her choice and a bottle of Handy Straight Rye if she could run it ASAP.
“Preston!” screamed someone across the office, hurling the name like a curse.
Officer Preston twisted his head to the side as the pain of the summons traveled down his spine. Shit, he thought, but he plastered a tortured smile on his face as he turned in the direction of the screamer.
Captain Angel Sisto had zero relation to his first name. He was not angelic. Large and imposing, he was ill-humored, cranky, impatient, rude, and louder than all members of his Italian family. The men under his command respected him, but no one wanted to be on his bad side.
“Yeah, Captain,” Preston squeaked.
“Get your ass in here.”
Low whistles sounded throughout the squad room. Preston cursed under his breath but headed to the captain’s office. Captain Sisto, no doubt, wanted an update on the street situation. There was also no doubt that he would chew into Preston’s ass when he got the information.
Preston entered the office, plastering himself in the chair opposite his grizzled boss. Sisto leaned back in his own chair, his face barely visible above the papers, reports, and paper lunch bags occupying his desk. Only his intense laser black eyes were clear above the flotsam.
“What we got on that Grant Street nonsense? I got chamber of commerce, general lookie-loos, and self-important types blowing up my phone and inbox. Even got some conspiracy nut posting on our Twitter page that we’re suppressing information because there’s no video of the fight.”
Preston girded his loins before answering. “We’ve got Jenga—on one hand plenty of witnesses and on the other hand the two primary ones I doubt are gonna cooperate.”
The pronouncement caused a single eyebrow to raise. “And why would that be?” Captain Sisto rumbled.
Preston leaned forward and handed his captain the card he had been given.
“Son of a bitch! What is this bullshit? A local street fight is way out of FBI purview.”
“Don’t I know it. This Kent fella said the boy—”
“Which boy? It was a street fight full of teenagers. It was all boys. Wait. I guess there could have been a girl too. Don’t want to break the political rules of the day.”
Preston twisted his head to the side.
“What?” asked Sisto, then sat forward when he saw the look on his officer’s face. “You gotta be kidding me?”
Preston shrugged. “The basic story is the agent’s son and his friend, a Madison Jennings, were walking to the store when they saw some other kid hit the old man. She jumped in, and the agent�
�s son, name’s Aden Maier, joined in the fun.”
“Doesn’t explain why this Agent Kent is throwing his creds around and, I’m presuming, wants us to leave his kid and his friend out of it.”
“The girl was tight-lipped. Didn’t tell or say a word to anyone. We only got her name from Kent. In any case, Agent Kent asked if we would leave her name out of the report, then inquired if they had run a legal status check on the one Spanish kid they arrested.”
Sisto slammed his fist on the desk. He knew the score. The last thing the district needed was another story to break about local law enforcement not cooperating with immigration officials. The connection between any potential gang ties and the knockout game was thin as a nanometer, but asking the question seconds after asking to keep the girl’s name out of the report told him what he needed to know. If the department proceeded with protocol, he had no doubt a couple of feds would descend on the office to snoop around. They were barely keeping the feds out of the overdose situation. He knew the DEA was chomping at the bit to swarm in. Eight overdose deaths within a hundred-mile radius had law enforcement and local politicians jumpy. Plus, more girls were missing.
“Have you talked to the other guys on scene yet?” asked Sisto, weighing his options.
“Just about to when you called me in. Figured we better get our stories, reports, and backup explanations in order before everyone filed.”
“Good idea. Go get it done. But don’t worry about excuses. If something breaks loose, we know who was there, and we know,” he said, pointing to the business card, “who to blame. It’ll be an FBI shit show.”
“I’ve already submitted a background with ICE on the Spanish kid.” Preston thought it prudent to omit he had made an inquiry on the girl. “I’ll go get with the guys,” he added in an attempt to get out of the office before Sisto asked any more questions. Now out in the hall, he saw freelance crime scene photographer Rhea Tompkins sitting on his desk.
“You know we got chairs to plant your ass into and not on my desk,” he growled when he reached her.
“Um, I’m pretty certain nothing about my ass should be coming out of your mouth.”
Preston planted himself back in his chair and snorted. “Sue me. All the judges around town know I prefer apple bottoms over flatjacks.”
Tompkins backhanded him in the shoulder, then laughed. “Ass. You’re terrible. No wonder you’re single. Here are those hard copies from the park you hounded me about.”
“You could’ve just emailed him the files. This is the twenty-first century,” yelled an officer.
“Not sure what you misunderstand about the word hard copy. Besides, I like coming here and hanging with you donut eaters,” Tompkins yelled back.
The retort earned her a bunch of double birds. She laughed and turned back to Preston as an incoming email pinged. The sound of an email or text message caused a Pavlovian response in most everyone these days. Preston kept his email box set up in preview mode, so reading the first couple of lines in the email was unconscious.
Tompkins’s eyes widened, then she turned to Preston. “Does that say what I think it does?”
Preston sat dumbfounded. Oh shit! He had not expected an answer that fast and did not want the one he got sitting like a radioactive brick in his inbox.
“Mikeyboy, you owe me more than a steak and a bottle of Handy on this one. Highland Park is more appropriate. Madison Jennings is an alias for Madelynne Collins of Christmas Day Massacre fame. She’d been scrubbed from most databases or at least her old name has been. Don’t know what you got on your hands there, but I’d put this hot potato down. Quick.”
“Fuck me.” He turned to Tompkins, shock on his face. When he turned back to his computer, the email was gone.
Chapter Forty-Five
Tina knew something was wrong the moment she opened the door. Maddie wore a pensive look as she stood next to Aden’s father. Tina decided to test her intuition. She opened the door wide and plastered a phony smile on her face. “I see my little builder is back home safe and sound.”
Maddie rushed through the door and walked by her mother without a word as Mr. Kent walked into the house behind her. Tina let Maddie get halfway down the hall before speaking. “Freeze, young lady.” Tina’s tone skewered Maddie against the wall. Her shoulders slumped, and she retraced her steps.
“What happened?” asked Tina, addressing Aden’s father.
“Let me start by saying you really ought to be proud of your daughter, Tina.”
“Uh-huh, I’ll be the judge of that. In the living room, the both of you.” Tina turned and marched away. She did not bother looking backward. Child and adult alike knew to do as told.
Mr. Kent walked into the living room and whispered to Maddie, who was by his side, “I’m a bit scared right now.”
“You’re in for a treat then unless she goes silent on me. If she goes silent, you may never see me again.”
Without another word, Maddie sat down on the living room couch. She leaned back and stared at the ceiling. She was safe for the moment. The fireworks would begin after Mr. Kent left.
Mr. Kent sat on the edge of his seat. He started to speak but stopped as Tina held up a finger to halt him. She grabbed her phone, hit speed dial, and placed the phone on speaker mode.
“Hey, honey, what’s up?” said Maddie’s father, his voice booming through the phone for all to hear.
“Derek, I’m here with Madison and Aden’s father. We have an issue.”
Silence. Maddie knew, however, that the words running through her dad’s head would place enough money in the swear jar to pay for college if he voiced them aloud.
“Does this involve yet another incident with this boy?” he asked. The query was more of a statement than a question. A tight smile stretched across Mr. Kent’s face.
“No. Not in the way you’re thinking.”
Mr. Kent explained the day’s event as he understood it. Maddie was sure he expected her mom and dad to react with pride or perhaps worry about Maddie’s well-being, something a normal family would do. But Mr. Kent had no way of knowing the lengths to which her mother had gone to keep a low profile. He could not fathom her mother’s almost pathological desire to never think about that day six years ago again. In her mind, the equation was simple: A story in the paper would lead to further scrutiny, which would lead to the press discovering the truth and showing up at their doorstep.
When Mr. Kent finished talking, Tina Jennings’s face was tight. Not a peep could be heard from Derek Jennings on the phone. Tina just looked at her daughter, then hung her head.
“I . . . look, I understand your concerns over the last few weeks—”
Tina cut him off. “I’m sure you think you do. You have a boy, not a girl. It’s not the same. Thank you for taking the time to explain this to us. We’ll be sure to speak with the police if they call.”
Tina stood, signaling that the conversation was over. Mr. Kent looked like he wanted to say something more, but he thought better of it. He rose, nodded, and turned to leave. “Maddie, I hope to see you again,” he said.
“I’m sure there will be an open casket.”
At the comment, Maddie’s mother threw a dagger of a stare. Mr. Kent showed wisdom: He said no more and fled from the house. The sound of the firmly shut front door behind him signaled the start of the real conversation. A bowling ball formed in Maddie’s stomach.
Tina walked back into the living room and just stared. “Do you want to move again?”
“No,” squeaked Maddie.
“Then what is wrong with you?” snapped Tina.
The statement was more of a shriek than a scream, swollen with frustration. “Is this some hyperaggressive way of getting me to keep homeschooling you? Do you want to be plastered across the news again? Do you even CARE that it won’t be just you? Your sister will be hounded at college. I won’t be able to go outside. Reporters will be all over your father’s job. Everywhere we go, They. Will. Be. There!”
&nbs
p; Maddie knew her mom would react this way, even knew she was right to a point. Still, she could not stop herself from attempting to brush it off. “Mother, reporters aren’t going—”
“DO YOU THINK THIS IS JUST ABOUT THE PRESS?” thundered Derek Jennings through the phone. Maddie had forgotten he was still on the call.
“There is still a fatwa against this family,” said Tina with heat. “It was issued after you survived the attack. They promised to find you, make you bleed, and make your family bleed next to you. In the same of Allah, it was promised. It is still active today. I know because I’ve checked. We’d be a target again.”
Maddie’s eyes narrowed. “Let them come.”
Tina’s eyes flashed in shock. In three strides, she was across the room, her hand poised in the air. She caught herself midway in the downward motion to slap Maddie. Maddie’s eyes were round as the moon. Her mother had spanked her numerous times as a child but never slapped her. She had never struck her in the face. The shock at seeing her mother come so close bled her bravado away. Somehow, she knew the silence from the phone signaled her father knew what had almost occurred.
Tina brought the swinging hand down and used it to cover her own mouth instead. She began to cry as she shook her head in denial of the moment. “Go to your room. Just get from in front of my face right now.”
Maddie bolted. Anger, frustration, and emotions she had no name for raged inside her. She could not believe her mom was steering their lives through fear. She could not understand why they had to hide like they were in protective custody. Why can’t she see I’m trying to do the right thing?
Tears threatened to pour from her in a cascade. Balling her fists tight, Maddie refused them. She would not cry. If one fell, a waterfall would follow. She would not allow herself to buckle. She had reason to be angry, not sad. Squeezing her eyes tight, she ordered the salty liquid back into their ducts.
Her rigid and clenched pose remained for several minutes. After the threat of tears had passed, she breathed in deep, the same tactic she used to calm herself when she was shooting. When she felt in control again, she started relaxing each muscle from head to toe. It felt like forever, but in real time she felt, if not relaxed, then not like a rusted spring ready to explode. The feeling would not last unless she distracted herself.
The Madison Jennings Series Box Set Page 25