Birthday Girl Read online

  “Odd how?”

  “She’s a hippie chick. Divination, crystals, numerology. All that crap. Claims she has a psychic connection to people and things. You’ll have to cut through all that to get anywhere.”

  “That’s . . . interesting. I’ll have to deal with it as it comes.” Elliott paused. “How much official information have you shared with her?”

  “What, like files? Reports?”

  “Yes.”

  “Some, but not much. When Lacey’s case was active, we told her what we were doing, of course. She asked for more—files on other missing kids and such. Trying to make some kind of connection, I guess. When she started talking about divining the kid’s whereabouts, though, we turned off the tap, if you know what I mean.”

  “I get it, but I need to work from something if I’m really going to help her,” Elliott said. “I need names, dates, locations if I’m going to build a profile of the kidnapper.”

  “That stuff only comes from case files.”

  “Correct.” There was dead air for a minute. “I know it’s not policy—”

  “Policy? It’s illegal!”

  “—and that it could be your job. If you got caught. I get that. But without some hard data to work from, I can’t do anything for her. So either I’m actually helping her find her daughter, or I’m pulling a con to help her cope with the assumed death of her daughter. And I’m not going to do that.”

  The pause was longer this time. “You’re really going to help her?”

  “Yes.”

  Dave glanced at the clock and groaned. 8:57. Elliott was asking for years of files, notes, case summaries. It was a good bet that neither he nor Amy could access email or a computer, so everything would have to be printed. As for finding the information, Dave would have to avoid getting sucked into old failures and successes and just focus on the cases relevant to Lacey’s disappearance, then organize everything so that two smart and driven, but untrained, would-be detectives could use the information in some meaningful way.

  “You better let me go, then,” Dave said. “It’s going to be a long night.”

  9

  Sister

  She’d only used this section of the city once before.

  Her life had been spent in and around Washington, DC, and she knew most of it like the back of her hand, but the east side of the city was a mystery to her. Over the years, portions of it had fallen into decline, risen in a temporary renaissance, only to fall back into poverty again. It was in one of those declines now, and many parts were still poor and, to her mind, quite dangerous, so she’d avoided traveling there, even if having a new portion of the city to . . . use would’ve been helpful.

  She’d briefly toyed with going as far as Baltimore, even breaking out a map and scouring the various streets and neighborhoods for a suitable spot. Barclay. Allendale. Pratt Monroe. Her favorite had been a neighborhood called simply Pigtown. An alley in Pigtown, she said to herself. It had a Dickensian ring to it, which suited the nature of her mission. Dickens, who wrote about the lost and the orphaned, the living and the almost dead. It seemed . . . appropriate.

  But there was always so little time and, anyway, Baltimore was a strange and dangerous place to her, a city that had grown organically rather than by intent. The buildings there were towering, intimidating, not hampered by the artificial restrictions of the capital that kept the city manageable. No, she would put this to rest nearby. At home, as it were, even if this section of the city was as strange to her as the dark side of the moon.

  From the Beltway, she squinted in the dark, trying to find the exit she needed. This was always the saddest and most frightening part of her task—a hum she’d maintained since leaving the house grew into a soft wail as she drove. But she pushed forward, making headway at exactly the speed limit. It was three in the morning, and she had a task to accomplish before getting into work by seven. She’d have no rest before putting in a full day at the office, but that was the nature of her work. A soft rain speckled the windshield, causing the pinpricks of white and amber light atop the distant buildings to grow and twinkle before the rhythmic thump of the wipers took it away.

  She had just spotted her exit when her heart suddenly leaped in her throat. A police car—brown and blue, lights flashing, no siren—flew by in the inside lane, its tires slicing through the rain with a sound like cloth ripping. A ripple passed through her as she watched its taillights dwindle in the distance. One minute she was alone on a four-lane highway; the next, her car was rocking side to side, almost sideswiped by a police car. It was too much.

  She faltered then, and nearly turned around. Had he started to follow her or even just slowed down, it would’ve been the end. She would’ve pulled over and confessed everything. Her anxiety was so strong, it was crippling.

  Compensating the only way she knew how, she took the long, sharp nail of her right index finger and dug it into the scrawny flesh of her left forearm. Scar tissue there kept her from feeling anything at first, and she pushed harder until, with her gasp, the pressure blossomed into very real, very sharp pain. The nail never broke the surface of her skin, but dozens of small crescents tattooed her arm from the wrist to the inside of her elbow. She sighed as the anxiety faded, letting her continue on.

  The street she was looking for was clearly marked, though she was disappointed to see her chosen target wasn’t the urban slum she’d expected, just a neighborhood in transition. It had its share of broken-down blocks of low-income housing, but also parks and murals and even an elegant old pile that might’ve been a theater or community playhouse. She’d been hoping for a desperate ghetto like the kind she’d seen in the newspaper.

  Still, there were a number of shady characters walking the streets and hugging the corners of row houses, dark figures with nothing to stop bad weather and life except rounded shoulders and an attitude. With the cold rain coming down in needles now, you had to be desperate or dumb or both to be on the streets four hours before dawn.

  Just what she was looking for.

  The alley was behind a short block of restaurants and tenements, a squat little drive attached to a parking lot, which made her nervous—lots meant cars, cars meant people—but pavement instead of mud also meant no tire tracks, or, alternatively, so many that hers would be lost. A dumpster took up half the width of the alley. Much of it was blanketed in shadow. Lights had only been spared for the lot, not for the passageway to the street.

  She pulled into a stall, then turned off her lights and settled in to wait. She’d flipped her collar up and hugged her arms to her chest when something caught her eye in the rearview mirror. Her exhaust, steaming in the cold. She turned the car off and burrowed even deeper into her light jacket, wishing she’d thought to bring something heavier.

  Lights in one tenement window winked off, on, then off again, but no one appeared silhouetted and suspicious, peering out to see who was crazy enough to sit in the cold in the middle of the night. When her fingers began to go numb, she leaned forward to start the car again, then froze. Another police cruiser, this one a red, white, and blue MPD sedan, slid through the parking lot like a shark. It slowed as it passed each row of cars, paused, then moved on.

  She slithered down into the footwell, her heart slamming in her chest, crouching beneath the steering wheel and resting her head against the cold vinyl of the door. Tears streamed down her face, and her breath came in short gasps.

  She heard the purr of the cruiser as it pulled close, and her imagination filled in the rest: a lone officer, bored, hoping for something to liven up a graveyard shift, happy to shine a spotlight on anything, hoping to find a crime in progress. Her heart popped into her throat: her car had out-of-state license plates. Was that enough to catch a policeman’s eye, make him get out and investigate?

  And there, there, looking just like she thought it would, a sharp, bright light passed through her window, turning the driver side of her car into a sheet of white. She pressed her face and her head into the gap be
tween the seat and the door like a frightened dog, jamming her feet up against the floorboards near the pedals to make herself as small as possible.

  The light stayed on her car for a long minute, pinning it, scouring it, until—in a blink—the light went off, plunging the car’s interior into darkness. The low burble of the cop car faded away, punctuated by the slow crunch of cinders and gravel.

  She didn’t move for many long minutes. Finally, with her legs going numb, she uncurled from under the steering wheel and crawled up the seat like an animal coming out of hibernation.

  With her eyes just above the horizon of the dashboard, she looked out. The lot was empty. The night was silent, cold, and dark. The few lights that had been on when she’d arrived were out.

  She pulled herself fully upright behind the wheel, started the car, and maneuvered it until she could back up into the alley, very near the dumpster. She left the car running, then got out, trotted to the back, and opened the trunk.

  Inside was the long, blanket-wrapped form. Grunting and straining, she pulled it out and dumped it onto the ground. Letting her fear fuel her, she dragged it to the dumpster, then tugged the blanket away.

  Working quickly, she rolled Charlie off the blanket, folded it, then threw it in the trunk. She arranged the body into a seated position against the rough brick wall behind him. She tried to fold the hands in the lap, but the slack fingers refused to stay intertwined, and the arms fell to his side.

  Biting her lip, she cupped one cheek in her hand, then leaned forward and kissed the young man’s forehead. He smelled faintly of buttercream icing. She looked at the wispy beginnings of a mustache barely visible in the little light that reached the alley. The face was both familiar and strange to her, a melding of all the boys and brothers and men she had known over the years.

  She frowned.

  His lower lip seemed to tremble. She blinked, passing a hand over his mouth, wondering if she imagined a feathery breath on her wrist. But there was a slight breeze in the alley that stirred plastic bags and fast-food wrappers. She leaned forward, staring at the pale blue vein in his temple, looking for the suggestion of movement. Did it pulse slightly?

  “No,” she whispered. Impossible. I measured carefully, accurately. I’ve always done it right.

  She went to feel for a pulse in his neck when a siren split the air on the street at the end of the alley. With a cry, her last nerve frayed, she fled to her car and slammed it into gear, leaving the lot and the body behind.

  10

  Elliott

  This is the way it happened.

  Marilyn is on his case again—he’s working too much, he’s never around, his daughter never sees him. So now he’s at a playground instead of the office, sitting on a bench while Cee Cee is on the swing. But his cases are piling up and his phone is ringing, ringing, ringing as people in the office try to reach him.

  They’re in the corner of the tot lot. He woke this morning with a headache and doesn’t really feel like making small talk with the other parents, who look at him with judging, sidelong glances, anyway. For what, being antisocial? For keeping his kid away from the others? Who knows.

  His head is in his hands, trying to think through a particularly thorny problem at work, when a knocking sound distracts him. He looks up, irritated. A jumble of kids are sitting at the top of the sliding board, jostling and pushing. One of them, grinning like an ape, is pounding on the board with his fist.

  The sound fills his head, impossible to ignore. Elliott gets up to ask the kid to stop when the slide begins to crumple and tip. Screaming, the kids tumble to the ground. There is crying and yelling from parents and children alike. Elliott stumbles across the lot, intent on helping, but stops short. The situation is in hand, and the nearby parents who see him approaching shoot him dirty looks. Rebuffed, his head pounding, he shrugs and turns to go back.

  Cee Cee isn’t on the bench or on the swings.

  She isn’t in the playground.

  She’s gone.

  The night had been hard, one of the hardest he could remember. Amy Scowcroft’s corner of southeast DC was unfamiliar territory, and all his comfortable go-to spots were miles away across the river.

  Years ago, he’d mistakenly tried to make DC his home, hoping to lose both himself and his memories in the city’s urban mass. But he’d been beaten and robbed too many times to stay, and he’d found out that he hadn’t actually wanted to forget. Scratching out an existence in sedate Old Town had kept him alive, which, in turn, let him remember.

  He’d gotten lucky this time—searching the streets got him a dry, secluded spot under the exhaust vent of a rundown neighborhood bakery. It had been an inspired choice, since work started at two in the morning, blowing warm air out through the vents and directly over where he lay huddled, teeth chattering.

  On the downside, the air was sweet with the smell of rising dough and baking bread. When he woke, his stomach had nearly turned itself inside out. He found a half-eaten bear claw in the trash that he paired with a small coffee he begged from a convenience store clerk. Exhausted, he sat on a park bench across the street from the bakery, sipping his coffee and letting the day begin around him.

  A church or town hall clock bonged the hour, startling him. Eight o’clock, he guessed. Time for him to start the first morning of his redemption. He got to his feet and shuffled the six or seven blocks to the address Dave had given him, a tiny apartment hanging on to the end of a rundown row of tenements. Even in the poor part of the city, the duct-taped repairs on his old jacket caught a few glances; he kept his head down as he walked. Police cars passed frequently, but they were looking for bigger fish.

  He stood at the bottom of the steps and looked at the cheap vinyl screen door, hesitating. His beard was stringy and halfway down to his chest. His hair was lank and greasy and hung past his shoulders. If he were being honest, he couldn’t remember the last shower he’d had—the rainstorm he and Amy Scowcroft had run through had been the closest thing he’d had to a bath in weeks. If he smelled like a barnyard, he was lucky.

  A small smile split his face. Butterflies, Dr. Nash? You’re here to help this woman, not to take her out on a date. He shook his head and mounted the steps, knocked, then retreated to the street. He’d found that people appreciated distance when dealing with the homeless.

  A minute passed before Amy opened the door, keeping it in front of her like a shield. A rat, flushed by the noise, scurried along the front of her porch and turned the corner. She frowned, confused. “Mr. Nash?”

  “Elliott,” he corrected her, then struggled to find more words. “Can we talk?”

  He watched as hope flickered across her face, then disappeared as reality and experience stepped in. He knew what she was thinking. The nights are getting colder . . . a homeless man . . . this is awfully convenient. “About what, exactly?”

  “I wanted to talk about your . . . about Lacey.”

  “Didn’t we already have that conversation?”

  He turned and looked down the street again, then back. “You’re not happy with me. I made it clear that I didn’t want to help.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “I’d like to change my mind.”

  “You would?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I . . . ,” he started, then shook his head.

  She waited, but he seemed to be unable to say what he came to say. “If you came up here for a handout—”

  “No! No. That’s not it at all.” He swallowed and seemed to be struggling. “I know my change of heart seems strange. Suspicious. I wouldn’t trust me either. But I have my reasons. All I can tell you is I don’t want anything from you. Except to help. I’ve lived on the streets for eight years.” He put a hand to his head. “I didn’t say that for your sympathy, I mean I don’t need anything, from you or anyone. Just the opposite, in fact. I . . . I haven’t needed to help someone else for a long time. Please. I’d like to help you.”

  His mo
uth went dry, surprised to find that he was terrified that she would turn him away. She seemed to search his face for something.

  Finally, she gave him a cautious smile and opened the door wider. “If you’re willing to help me find Lacey, I wouldn’t say no.”

  He nodded. “I don’t know what I can do for you. But, whatever I can offer, it’s yours.”

  Inside, a futon with a purple covering kept company with a homemade coffee table made from milk crates and a piece of plywood. It was stacked high with papers, binders, and manila folders. The smell of incense hung heavy in the air, tickling his nose. The only decorations were a tie-dyed sheet hung with thumbtacks on the wall and a dead spider plant sharing space in the kitchenette sink with several dirty coffee cups. He could’ve made it to the sink and back in four steps.

  He sat gingerly on the edge of the futon. Amy shut the door and there was a thick moment of silence.

  “Nice place,” he said at the same time as Amy blurted, “Can I get you anything?”

  They each gave an awkward laugh. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not used to this. I haven’t had anyone here since . . . for, well, forever.”

  “I haven’t sat on a cushion in forever, so we’re even.” He started to say something, stopped, then rested his forehead on the heel of his hand. “Look. If it wasn’t obvious, I haven’t worked, if that’s what you want to call this, in eight years. Most of my conversations have been about shelters and free meals and where I can spend the night. I’m not even sure I can speak to you like a normal person. I might be very . . . honest with you.”

  “I need honest right now.”

  “I’m saying it might hurt,” he said. “And I don’t have the skills to soften the blow. Not anymore.”

  She looked him in the eye. “Elliott, I can take it. I’ll do anything to get Lacey back. And, believe me, I’ve found ‘normal’ conversation overrated. I want you to speak your mind.”