All Good Deeds (7 page)

“I thought I heard the door close. We don’t have service today, and the priest is conducting a meeting. I’m Sister Abigail. Can I help you?”

Her friendly and open attitude surprised me; the nuns in Catholic school hadn’t been cruel, but they were the stereotypical stern-faced, serious women. Then again, they had a bunch of hormonal, cocky teenagers to deal with on a daily basis, so I couldn’t exactly blame them.

“I hope so.” I offered the nun a flier. “I’m looking for this little girl. You wouldn’t have seen her?”

Sister Abigail’s smile evaporated. She took the picture and studied it carefully. “No, I haven’t.”

“It was a long shot. She goes to Kipling Elementary, and I doubted she’d have come by the church on her walk home. But I wanted to check. Would you pass the flier around?”

“Absolutely.” Sister Abigail looked at the flier again. “She’s only nine years old, and she walks home alone, in the city?”

“No, she actually walks with two older girls. But they somehow got separated yesterday.”

Sister Abigail’s eyes narrowed. “These girls, how old are they and what do they look like?”

I quickly checked the information Todd had briefed me on this morning. Fifth graders Josie and Bridget walked Kailey to and from school for the past year. “They’re ten and eleven. Both brown haired. One’s got long hair and the other short. Typical little girls, I think. Why?”

“If one of them has a backpack with a boy band on it–I can’t remember the name, something about a direction–then I do know those two girls. In fact, I ran them out of the vacant lot behind the church yesterday after lunch.” The nun clucked her tongue, shaking her head. “I thought they should have been in school, but they said they had an early dismissal. I let them know the lot was no place for them to be playing. We have our share of hooligans around here. But your little one,” she gestured to the flier, “wasn’t with them.”

My pulse kick-started. “When you say after lunch, do you remember what time exactly?” The police were right. The two girls lied.

“It was before one o’clock,” Sister Abigail said. “I’m diabetic, so I have to keep to my schedule. And I’d just finished my lunch and washed the dishes. The window over the sink overlooks the lot, you see. That’s when I noticed them.”

Josie and Bridget had told everyone they’d taken their normal route. The church was not on that route or anywhere near it. The girls’ lie meant the police didn’t have the correct information about Kailey’s disappearance.

My jaw ached from the force of my clenched teeth. “Thank you so much, Sister Abigail. I don’t think we have the full story from those two. I need to call the police right away. If you remember any more or come across anyone who’s seen Kailey, please call the number on the flier.”

Sister Abigail promised she would, and I hurried out of the church, barely able to think straight. What were those girls thinking? The answer was obvious: they’d disobeyed their parents about the route they were to take home from school and were covering their butts. Typical children who couldn’t fathom problems beyond their own.

I punched in Todd’s number and hoped he’d let me go with him to talk to the girls. Probably not, but I’d ask anyway.

“Find anything?” He wasted no time.

“Josie and Bridget lied about the route they took home. A nun ran them out of the church’s vacant lot yesterday. Before one o’clock.”

“Goddamnit. So our timeline and location of her disappearance is off. I’m going to have those girls’ heads.”

I felt the same, but I had enough experience dealing with kids to know that was the wrong approach. “You can’t be a bull in a china shop. They’re scared and probably feel guilty. Let them know this is about helping Kailey. Be nice, not a bully.”

“Kailey doesn’t have time for me to be nice.”

“Why don’t you let me go with you to talk to them? I’ve worked with a lot of kids and–”

“Nope. This is as close to the investigation as you get. Thanks for the tip, and please keep searching if you have the time.”

He ended the call.

I hoped Josie and Bridget were still in school when I arrived this afternoon.

I
searched for
another hour before heading back to my apartment in Northern Liberties. None of the volunteers found any more information on Kailey. A dull ache had taken up residence in my head. I kept thinking of Kailey’s mother, of her vacant eyes, of the shock freezing her expression into a mask of disbelief. As much as I hurt, what about Jenna Richardson?

The sight of my building brought a sliver of solace from the storm I’d ventured into. As a historical junkie, modern apartments with cheap building materials don’t impress me. I needed some character in my home, something to distract me from the muck I usually swam in.

Unfortunately, many of the older homes in Philadelphia are in neighborhoods still deep in the process of gentrification and surrounded by industry and crime.

Two years ago, I lucked out and snagged an apartment in the Northern Liberties Historic District. The building is a Federal Style home and dates back to 1809. Some innovative restoration expert saw life in the old house, and the apartments were salvaged while still keeping their historical bones. I lived on the top floor, on the western side, which means I was blessed with some amazing sunsets.

My apartment wasn’t much bigger than the dorm suite I’d shared in college. The bedroom fit my double bed with about a foot to spare, and the living room and kitchen all blended into an open concept that kept the space from looking too much like the inside of a tin can. But the walk-in closet complete with very useful cubby holes and a killer shoe rack made living in miniature worth it.

A demanding yowl greeted me. Mousecop wrapped himself around my ankles, purring loudly. I scooped him up and snuggled him, listening to the sound of his motor. “Hi, fat one.”

He twisted in my arms, his tail slipping around my neck. I knew his game. I carried him to my small kitchen, cradling him like the spoiled baby he was. His food bowl wasn’t empty, but I could see the bottom, and that was a no-no in Mousecop’s world. I poured him some expensive food and left him purring and chowing.

My eyes drooped from the early morning, and I checked my messages yet again hoping to have something from Kelly. She’d managed to log into Kailey’s email address and was painstakingly going through every contact. The police would do the same, but I wanted the information for my own investigation. She also found Slimy Steve on yet another disgusting website, with a new screen name and trying to meet up with a young girl. I needed to take care of him.

The phone pulsed, rattling on my miniscule end table. I slouched in the chair when I saw my mother’s name pop up on the caller I.D. If I didn’t answer and deal with her now, she’d keep calling.

“Hello?” I’m sure I didn’t sound pleased to hear from her.

“You were supposed to call me three days ago.”

My chin dropped to my chest. I didn’t need this right now. “Sorry. I’ve been busy.”

My mother heaved a sigh, and I pictured her sitting in the kitchen, sipping her iced tea. Once a raven-haired beauty, age and bad choices marked her face with deep wrinkles. Her makeup only made the lines more visible. No longer lustrous, her hair hung limp to her shoulders. “You’re always too busy for me.”

“I’ve got a backload of cases, Mom.” Not true, but I certainly had plenty of crap to muddle through.

“I know. But you’ve only got one mother. And who knows how long I’ll be around?”

“You’re only sixty-seven.”

My mother sighed with the imagined weight of the world. “I’ve had a hard life, Lucy.”

“I remember. How’s Mack?” Asking about my stepfather was the only way to keep from hanging up on her. The three of us had dinner together the other night, and Mack wound up with chest pains. I spent hours stuck with my mother in the emergency room, half-wishing she was the one in peril. Thankfully Mack was all right, but I still worried about him. He worked too hard and refused to retire.

“He’s fine,” my mother said. “But I have to force him to take it easy. It’s so hard when he won’t listen to me, Lucy.”

Never mind how tough it is for an aging construction worker and lifelong outdoorsman to admit he needed to slow down. It was always about Mother. “Tell him I’ll stop by to see him as soon as I can. I’ve picked up a case, and it’s pretty urgent.”

“Your job is so sad,” my mother said. “I’ll never understand why you chose to work with these kinds of people when you could have been anything.”

“These kinds of people, Mom? As if they’re any different from us?” Hypocrisy was one of my mother’s star attributes.

“That isn’t fair.”

“Fair? Do you actually think life is fair?”

My mother sighed. “I didn’t say that.”

“You just said it.” I tried not to snap. It would only cause an argument I couldn’t win. “And I do important work. I help families, and every once in a while I help put a piece of trash behind bars. I’m sorry my work puts me in contact with “those kinds of people.’”

“You’re twisting my words. I never said there was anything wrong with the type of people you help.”

A familiar ache pulsed in the back of my neck. I knew better than to get sucked into this game. “Fine. So what did you call for?”

“Because you never call me. Here I am, with only Mack and my daughter as family, and you choose to ignore me.” My mother sniffled. I imagined her dabbling her nose with a scratchy tissue. She never bought the name brand. “What if something happened to me? How terrible would you feel then? Would I finally get some attention?”

My tired body sagged into the chair. I hated that after all she’d done–and all the things she didn’t do–my mother still had the ability to make me feel like the bad child.

“I’m sorry. I’ll try to do better.”

Another sniffle. “I hope so.”

My throat knotted. The blades of a thousand knives dug into the back of my neck. Life would be so much easier if I didn’t love my mother. If some part of me still didn’t long for her approval. For her affection.

She cleared her throat and sighed–a signal the conversation was taking a turn. “Are you seeing anyone?”

I groaned. My mother fit the passive-aggressive, yet excessively nosy cliché mother mold perfectly. And we’d had this conversation the last time we saw each other. Did she really think I’d met some Casanova in a few days’ time? “Not seriously, no.”

“What happened to the doctor?”

He wasn’t a doctor. He was the chemist who provided me the cyanide. But my mother couldn’t know that, so I said he was a pediatrician. Wasn’t a total lie, as he did have a doctorate.

“I see him occasionally. We’re both busy.”

“You’re thirty-four years old,” my mother said. “A couple more years, and pregnancy will be a bigger risk for you.”

“Women in their forties have babies all the time, Mom. Besides, I’m not sure I want kids.”

Vigilante killer of pedophiles and mother. Somehow those two ideas didn’t gel.

“Lucy, I’d like to have grandkids, and you’re my only hope.” The self-indulgent, whiney tone made my teeth grind.

“And why is that, Mother?”

“Please don’t bring up your sister’s death now.”

“I didn’t. You did.” Twenty-two years ago, my sister had taken her own life because of our mother’s sick boyfriend. Anger burned inside the usually hollow pit of my heart. I tasted it in my mouth, felt it in my pounding head. The same anger that fueled my extracurricular activity threatened to overwhelm me.

“You know, I lost a child.” Now Mother sounded petulant. She probably looked like she was sucking on a lemon. “I suffered more than you can imagine.”

“I think you forget it was Lily who suffered the most.”

“You know I did the best I could.”

The best she could was turning a blind eye to all the obvious signs her live-in boyfriend was abusing her oldest daughter. Even when I insisted something wasn’t right, Joan ignored me. And then my sister was gone. As I got older, I could have forgiven my mother’s ignorance. I couldn’t forgive the way she used my sister’s suicide to evoke sympathy and manipulate everyone around her. She excelled in an argument, never failing to make herself the victim regardless of the barbs she dished out. Debating with her was a waste of energy.

I sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m just really stressed out right now. A little girl went missing after school yesterday, and I’m afraid one of my former cases might have taken her.”

“The little girl from Poplar?” Joan sucked in a whistling breath. “I saw that on the news this morning.”

“Remember Justin Beckett?”

“Yes. You were obsessed with that kid. I didn’t hear from you for nearly a month after he was arrested.”

“Right. Well, he lives across the street from the missing girl.”

“What do the police think?”

I wasn’t about to get into an ethics discussion with my mother. “They’re looking at everyone.”

“Well, I hope they find her. What her mother must be going through.”

“She’s a mess.”

“I’ve no doubt,” she said. “You know I’ve been having those heart palpitations again, ever since Mack’s incident the other night.”

Typical. No one could direct a conversation back to the topic of herself better than Mother.
“Have you gone to the doctor?”

“I don’t want to. You know I’m afraid they’ll find something serious.”

“Better they find it than to just hope nothing’s wrong. What does Mack think?” I’ve yet to figure out how my stepfather put up with my mother’s emotional manipulation. He was a decent, hardworking guy, perpetually optimistic. He deserved more than melancholy, damaged Joan.

“He thinks I should go to the doctor.” Her tone cheered up the way it always did when Mother talked about herself. “I suppose I should. But I don’t know what I’ll do if they find something serious.”

“You’ll let them treat it.” I checked my watch. Almost time to head to school. “I’ve got to get going, Mom. I have an appointment. I’ll call you.”

“No, you won’t.”

I forced myself to smile in hopes I’d sound semi-pleasant. “Of course I will.”