The Wicked Flee (A Marty Singer Mystery Book 5) Read online

  But she’d climbed the ladder before and knew that analyzing the situation on the ground, with the strong tang of chlorine in the air and the scratchy concrete safely under her feet, was very different from being twenty feet off the surface of the pool, looking between your toes at the water far below. She could make herself follow through, she decided, but only if she climbed the ladder, walked out onto the board, and jumped, all in one motion. If she stopped to think about it, she’d freeze and have to face the humiliation of climbing down the ladder. Dizzy with fear, she’d followed her own advice and was swimming up from the bottom before she was even aware that she’d jumped. Gasping as she broke the surface, she looked over at her friends standing by the side of the pool and had seen a wide-eyed awe on their faces that hadn’t ever quite gone away.

  She was on the high dive now.

  Lucy straightened in her seat, reached to her feet to grab the blanket, then pulled it up to her chin, billowing it out more than she had to. As the blanket settled around her, she calmly reached over, wrapped both hands around the brake lever, and yanked back as hard as she could.

  The world exploded in a tangle of screeching, shuddering, and bucking. Lucy was vaguely aware of the man swearing at the top of his voice as the back end of the Mustang swung around like a theme park ride. The car fishtailed out of the lane and off the road, hitting the rough edge of the shoulder at fifty miles an hour. The man yanked the wheel hard to the left and Lucy’s frame of reference snapped violently in the opposite direction. Her head whipped left, then right, smacking the passenger’s-side window hard enough for her to black out for a second.

  Distantly, like a whisper from across the room, she realized they’d come to a stop. The whisper turned into a shout—Get out!—and she flailed at her seat belt, batting at the release button until the belt slipped off. She clawed at the door and it flew open, flooding the car with winter air.

  Lucy tumbled to the ground, gasping as her hands hit the frozen cinders of the roadside. She scrambled to her feet and took off running, but she’d only gone a few feet when she saw that the highway was lined by a cyclone fence. She turned and headed along the shoulder, half-blind from the snow and reeling.

  The Mustang made strange starting noises behind her and she picked up her pace. The analytic part of her mind was yammering at her, demanding to know why she hadn’t waited until they neared an overpass or on-ramp. You’re not going to make it, the cold, calculating half of her brain told her. He’s bigger and stronger than you. Not to mention you were stoned out of your head for hours.

  “Shut up,” she gasped, pushing herself. She ran on the track team, had been working out and doing martial arts since she was too young to remember. And I don’t have to outrun him, she told herself, sticking out an imaginary tongue at her analytic self. I have to attract enough attention to get someone to stop.

  Her brain made a snarky comment that the way to attract attention would be to run onto the road, not beside it, but then subsided into a murmur as it realized that would be more suicidal than helpful. She suppressed all thought and concentrated on running. But the cold air was lancing through her chest and her legs started to feel heavier than they ever had at track practice. Pushing through the snow, she focused on an orange-yellow light far ahead that might be a traffic light or a signal for an off-ramp. She risked a glance back and felt a surge of triumph when she couldn’t see the man at all. The good news gave her a boost of energy and she lengthened her stride despite the pain in her feet and the cold that was creeping along her legs.

  Her whole being concentrated on moving, putting the feet down and picking them up. As long as she was running, she wasn’t in that car. But the light wasn’t getting any closer. Her nose was running and her hair was getting in her mouth as she dragged in a ragged lungful of air. She thought by now that someone would have stopped but she realized that she couldn’t remember anyone having passed her—the road had been empty the entire time she’d been running.

  When she heard the crunch of tires on the snow, she gave up. She slowed to a jog, then a walk, and then came to a standstill, shivering, as the Mustang pulled alongside her. The man got out of the driver’s side, his face ugly with anger. He bundled Lucy, unresisting, into the passenger’s seat, got back in, and took off down the highway.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Gaithersburg?” I asked. I’m not sure why the information surprised me. I guess I’d always thought of it as just one more sleepy burg north of Rockville, another bedroom community that supplied DC with workers, tax income, and traffic. But why not? Crime occurs in the most innocuous places.

  Chuck shrugged, shifted, put his hand back on the wheel. We were heading for the 95 on-ramp at sixty. At this rate, we’d be doing eighty by the time we merged. “Tuck wasn’t in any shape for in-depth conversation. I got an address and the name of a motel.”

  I kept my mouth shut. It would’ve been smarter to give me five minutes with Mr. Tuck to see if I could wheedle a jot more information from him—not quite good cop–bad cop, more like bad cop and I’ll-keep-my-friend-from-killing-you cop—but Chuck was of the mind-set that to have information was to act on it. And maybe he was right. Every second we didn’t spend chasing Lucy’s kidnapper was an opportunity for him to slip away for good. If it was my daughter, Amanda, who had been knocked out and stuffed in some guy’s car, I couldn’t say I would’ve acted any differently.

  “Do we have anything else?”

  “He said there’s a guy, don’t know his name, who runs a string of girls out of the motel. Tuck got his rocks off there while he was working construction in Rockville. When the job dried up, Tuck asked around, see if there was any extracurricular stuff he could do. He probably meant bouncing or muscle work, you know. Get paid in dope and pussy. Answer came back, not right now, but leave your number.”

  “And he got a call recently?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “But not for strong-arm work,” I guessed. “The guy told him he was looking for new recruits for the string and could Tuck help him out?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And Tuck immediately thought of his girlfriend?”

  “Ex-girlfriend,” Chuck corrected me. “Couple months ago, he started slapping her around when she wouldn’t put out. Lucy worked a little ch’a gi magic and that ended things.”

  “Ch’a gi?”

  “Kick to the face. Tuck forgot she’s a red belt in hapkido. Busted nose, black eye. Man, it was beautiful.”

  “Gives breakup a whole new meaning.”

  He huffed a small laugh.

  “So, when Lucy wasn’t ready to sleep with him,” I continued, “Tuck, being as emotionally undeveloped as you can be and still be part of the human race, decides he won’t be dissed.”

  “And the piece of garbage sells her to some pimp,” Chuck said.

  “Was this the guy we just missed tonight at Tuck’s?”

  “Not sure.”

  As we talked, Chuck squeezed the steering wheel until I thought his knuckles were going to pop through the skin. I was quiet for a minute, letting him get control. Snow had started to fall in fat flakes as big as quarters. They stuck to the car and left a wet trail as they slid down the glass of my window.

  “One thing bothers me,” I said.

  “Just one?”

  “Besides the obvious. Human trafficking wasn’t my specialty back in the day, but I had to take crossover courses like everybody else.”

  “Yeah?”

  “So, the trainers told us how the new breed of pimp wasn’t the kind to beat his girls into compliance or make examples of them. These new guys are con men, talking the girls into hooking, duping them into thinking they’re the ones making the decision. Doing it out of love, even.”

  “Yeah, happens in the gangs,” Chuck said. “They found out that running girls is safer than drugs. Sentencing for pimping isn’t near
ly what it is for getting busted for dealing, and you can use bodies over and over again. A homie will have five or six girls on a string, all of them thinking he’s going to sweep her off to Vegas and leave the other girls behind. All she has to do is turn enough tricks to make him love her just a little more and then everything will be swell.”

  “Even middle- and upper-class kids can be in it, though, right? Mom and dad are barely home, and dysfunctional when they are, so the kid is ripe for some guy to come around and tell her how special she is.”

  Chuck nodded. “Sure. Caused a big stink last year when the media found out some of the wealthiest kids in NOVA were turning tricks in mall parking lots.”

  “But the common denominator is that they’re willing, at least on the surface. They come from a lousy home life or have a rebellious streak, maybe they’re experimenting or maybe they need some emotional fulfillment they’re not getting at home.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So how does Lucy fit into the profile?”

  “She don’t,” Chuck said. “I mean, she’s got the rebellious thing down, sure. She can be a real pain in the ass. But she ain’t mad at me or our grandparents. She ain’t out to prove anything. When she doesn’t want to do what I say, she tells me to go for a long walk off a short pier.”

  “Then what does this guy want with Lucy?” I pressed. “She’s not going along with the program like some moonstruck teenager. If she kicked her boyfriend in the face for trying to force her into bed, she’s not looking for love from some creep she never met before.”

  He pursed his lips. “It might not be that complicated. There are plenty of old-school pimps still out there, the ones who’ll beat the hell out of their girls if they won’t hook.”

  “Seems like a lot of trouble to get another girl for the string,” I said. “Why not just scoop up another runaway? You can’t tell me this guy can’t get what he needs in Baltimore or down in Southeast.”

  Chuck was silent for a minute, then shook his head. “I don’t know, Singer. Maybe there’s something you or I never seen before.”

  It was an ugly thought and neither one of us said anything for a long minute. The Integra hummed along I-95, the broken white lines of the lane divider passing under us with a consistent pulse.

  “Either way,” I said, “it doesn’t change the fact we need to find her. In fact, it changes things very little. We just need to get her back.”

  He nodded, tight-lipped, and pressed down on the gas.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  TODAY, EARLY EVENING

  Sarah checked her notebook again. Handley’s information put Tena in a quiet, planned neighborhood in downtown Glenwood identical to hundreds like it in Maryland, Virginia, and Pennsylvania. The house sat at a regulation setback from the street and a comfortable, four-lawn-mower-swipes away from its neighbors. All of the houses in the plan were cut from the same pattern with little variation: two stories, vinyl siding, faux black shutters, and a good-neighbor fence in the back that spoke of middle-income respectability. Blinking icicle lights winked from gutters and kids’ sleds. Snowmen of varying sizes and attire guarded every third yard. Not a place you’d pick as the hub for a network of pimps and prostitutes.

  What’s it supposed to look like? Crooks and whores and pimps were people, and they liked houses and cars and TVs like anybody else. They didn’t have to fit a stereotype. The academy had entire classes on crack-dealing elementary school teachers and embezzling nurses who skimmed from the hospital budget. But she couldn’t shake the weird image of Tena hooking up johns while working the grill at a neighborhood barbecue.

  In reality, it probably all happened online. Chat rooms and forums had replaced street corners a long time ago. And that meant that the business could go anywhere, be anywhere. Take away the need to drive to a seedy neighborhood, toss in the runaways or unloved teens that existed everywhere, and stir with the never-ending supply of sleazy men with erections and money. The result? Ward Cleaver running a string of girls out of a single-family home in Glenwood.

  Sarah glanced at her watch. Getting Handley to talk had been a godsend, but she had an hour at most before she had to start her regular patrol. If Kline caught her working solo on Tiffany’s case a few hours after telling her to drop it, she might as well tender her resignation now.

  She got out of the cruiser and hitched her gun belt higher on her hips as she walked to the front door. Her eyes played over the front of the house, hoping to learn something from simple observation, but the home was as unremarkable as every one of the buildings around it. Snow and ice had been left to pile up on the walk, while the blacktop driveway leading to the garage was clear. All that told her was that Tena drove everywhere, that the garage had a door to the house, and that her pants were going to get wet, since she couldn’t exactly knock on the garage door.

  No holiday decorations, she thought idly. Didn’t mean anything. Only half the houses in the neighborhood had remnants of Christmas and New Year’s ornaments on them. Not everyone was Christian, and not everyone liked Christmas. Sarah rang the doorbell and rapped on the door. A shadow moved on the other side, visible through the glass side panes, then disappeared without answering. She rang the bell and knocked again. A larger shadow replaced the first and the door opened.

  Tena, if it was him, was big, maybe six two, with round shoulders and a beer gut that pushed out a striped dress shirt that had been tucked into black jeans. A thick, dark mustache flecked with gray made a pale, round face even paler. A gold chain—bought by a younger, thinner man—was stretched tightly between two folds of his neck. He cracked the screen door.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  Over his shoulder, Sarah could see a girl, long black hair, peeking around a corner of the living room. Tena noticed the direction of her gaze and turned to look. The girl vanished before he’d finished turning his head.

  “Are you Gerald Tena?”

  “Yes. What’s this about?”

  “Trooper Sarah Haynesworth,” she said, flashing her badge. She wasn’t thrilled to give him her name in case he called the barracks, but she had to demonstrate her authority to ask him questions. “Do you know a Tonya Beckworth or a Tiffany Chilton, Mr. Tena?”

  He shrugged, shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. Should I?”

  “How about a Kevin Handley?”

  “Yeah, I know Kevin,” he said. His breath steamed in the air. “We used to work together at J&L.”

  “Have you seen him recently?”

  “Once in a while. At bars, the grocery store, that kind of thing. We don’t hang out or nothing. Why?”

  “Kevin Handley is in the custody of the Washington County sheriff right now,” Sarah said, being careful how she said it. “He was caught last night dragging a teenage girl’s body into the woods. The girl was Tiffany Chilton.”

  Tena’s mouth fell open. “Holy crap. Did he kill her?”

  “We don’t know. She might’ve OD’d. But he’s at least guilty of felony obstruction.”

  “Sorry, Officer. I don’t know anything about that,” Tena said, sounding shaken. “Kevin and I were drinking buddies at best. I haven’t seen him in a couple weeks, honest.”

  “That’s funny,” Sarah said. “Because he said he’d met you a few days ago. In fact, he said you introduced him to this girl Tiffany.”

  Tena’s face rippled and blanched, but he kept his composure. “If he said that, he’s lying. I don’t know any girl named Tiffany and I sure as hell didn’t set him up with her.”

  “Are you married, Mr. Tena?”

  He blinked. “No.”

  “Who is the girl who came to the door just now?”

  “My niece. Visiting from Houston.”

  “May I speak with her?”

  Tena shook his head. “You got a warrant?”

  “For what, Mr. Tena?”

  “For anyt
hing, that’s what,” he said, his voice getting more confident and offended. “I don’t like you trying to pin anything on me. If Kevin Handley killed some girl, that’s on him. He always was a sad little creep, but he ain’t my problem.”

  “I just have a few more questions,” Sarah started. “Can someone verify—”

  Without another word, Tena took a step back and shut the door in her face.

  Sarah stood there for a second. “That ends the interview,” she murmured, then turned and trudged back through the snow to the sidewalk, doing her best to place her feet in her previous footsteps to limit the damage to her pants. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the blinds in the front window snap shut. She sensed Tena on the other side, watching her.

  The car was warm and Sarah sat, letting the heater do its work. And why not let Tena sweat a little at the same time? He didn’t know she had to leave in less than five minutes and would have to push the car to ninety to make it on time.

  Sarah chewed her lip. Had she handled this the right way? Tena had been nervous, but was he any jumpier than anyone else after being told that someone they knew had been caught with a dead body? And had said they were complicit in the death? Most people would react poorly, to put it mildly.

  She swore. If this were a real investigation, she would’ve been able to put a tap on his phone and watch how he scrambled after she’d dropped the bomb on him. As it was, all she managed to do was freak him out in time for her to leave. Unless she’d managed to shock him into admitting his role in Tiffany Chilton’s death, this was a dead end.