Little Girls Lost (21 page)
Power to Burn
Ryder compared the bar to the largest scrap. “Listen to this: ‘Carbosnackers are a potent combination of vitamins, minerals and carbohydrates created specifically for fast, high-energy needs. Perfect for runners, cyclists, climbers and weightlifters.’”
Sandhill studied the small print over the back of the package. “Magnesium, calcium, chromium, phosphorus, zinc, dicalcium phosphate, folic acid, lecithin, protease…” He raised his eyebrows. “Jesus, Ryder.”
Ryder nodded. “Yeah. It’s the same stuff found in the burned girl’s stomach. Which makes it likely Desmond has an athletic buddy. Maybe big enough to look like a bulldog. Which makes little Truman…”
Sandhill stared at Ryder with amazement and admiration.
“Our chihuahua.”
Truman paced the floor of his apartment and sucked from a can of Mountain Dew. The buyer had no idea who they were, right? They were nothing more than a website. The main man—Matune? Wasn’t that what the bald fucker called him?—didn’t even know they lived in Mobile, just the general area. The brothers were safe, if poorer: Rose’s idiocy had tossed a quarter-million dollars down the crapper—and from a solid, repeat
customer—but it could be made up. And he’d damn sure hold Rose to repaying.
Truman heard the phone ring downstairs in the studio. A wrong number, he figured, no one ever called much after business hours. It rang eight times.
He was opening the refrigerator to get another can of pop when the phone in his apartment rang. He closed the fridge and crossed the floor, thinking,
Rose, let it be Rose, let the bastard have changed his mind, it’s not too late…
“Rose?”
Truman heard an active emptiness, sensed the person at the end of the silent connection.
“Rose?” he repeated. “Is that you?”
Several seconds of silence were followed by a voice, a veneer of calm over a core of ice.
“Where is Lorelei?”
Truman’s breath turned to stone in his throat. “Who?” he choked.
“Lorelei. Where is she?”
Truman lowered his voice a register and tried to sound black. “I’m sorry, I think you got the wrong number.”
“Oh, I have your number all right, Mr Desmond. I’ve had it since our first exchanges last year. Did you know a knowledgeable computer type, given a little time and a lot of money, can—”
Truman slammed the phone down.
Four seconds later it rang again.
“Stay down on the floor, Jacy,” Rose said. “Or you’ll have to go in the back.”
They were at a stoplight, the interior of the van red with the glow of the light. Jacy was crouched on the floor next to Rose. She looked up at him, her eyes expectant.
“Am I going home now?”
“First we’re going to visit a farm. Do you like farms?”
“Are there cows and horses?”
“No.”
“How can it be a farm?”
“It’s more like a farm you live on. I used to live there.”
“You lived there when you were a baby?”
“And when I was your age. And even older.”
“Did you grow into a Minute Hour because your mama fed you farm food, like for bulls or horses?”
Rose laughed. “You’re funny, Jacy. That’s cute.”
“Who lived with you?”
“My brother and my mama.” Rose paused. “Then things changed.”
“Is your mama there now?” Jacy asked.
The interior of the van turned green. Rose spun the wheel and turned into a lane thick with overhanging trees.
“She left a long time ago. But sometimes it feels like she’s everywhere.”
Truman piled clothes into his opened suitcase. He’d follow Rose to the weed-strangled, decaying
acreage where they’d lived with Mama. Truman had tried to sell the land—half of it under water every spring—but Rose clung to the place like a drowning sailor clings to a bobbing spar, paying the paltry taxes, whining about how it was
where we lived with Mama, Tru.
Mama the schizo nutcase, Truman thought, though he’d never tell Rose that. Truman would go to the farm and Rose be damned; they could lay low until the ship left Mobile, then figure out how to salvage some money from the situation. He could log on to the site and explain things to the man. Matune? Was that what the bald head-case called the client? Matune?
Matune.
Truman froze with the suitcase in his hand.
He knew the man’s name. That he had arrived in Mobile on a ship. Rose had discovered the ship’s name and berth.
Truman released a relieved breath. Secret knowledge was serious power. He’d tell the man to either accept a new girl or they’d dissolve the relationship. Maybe he’d make the guy a deal, ten grand off for his troubles. If Matune stayed pissy, all Truman had to do was play the name card.
“
I’ve detailed our dealings, Mr Matune, all letters sent and received, everything. If anything happens to me, Mr Matune…”
Matune knew who Truman was, Truman knew who Matune was: A standoff. Truman slipped the curtain aside and peered out over the parking lot. Empty. Rose had the van, but Tru’s little wagon
was parked around back. He crept to the door hoping he’d remembered everything: Clothes, laptop, cologne, slippers…
Was that a sound outside? Truman slid his ear to the door. That was the problem with being next to the highway, the constant noise. He listened for a full minute, nothing. Truman was flicking off the light when the door exploded open and iron fingers encircled his throat.
“Hello, skinny man,” Tenzel Atwan’s voice whispered in his ear. “Where little girl? Where muscle man?”
“G-gone,” Truman choked, the grip on his throat letting words out without letting air in.
“Gone to where?”
“Farm. Not…far.”
“That a truth?
Truman’s head nodded. “Tru-true,” he choked.
“We find out fast, don’t we?” the voice said with delight. The fingers tightened and the room began to spiral.
Just before he spun into darkness, Truman smelled something pungent. Oily.
“It’s the police, Desmond. Open up.”
Ryder hard-knuckled the door of Truman Desmond’s apartment. It was an inch ajar and lights blazed inside. Sandhill stood behind, listening for a response. The only sound was traffic on the highway. Ryder pushed open the door and leaned across the threshold.
“I smell smoke.”
“Meat burning?” Sandhill whispered. “Check the stove. Go slow.”
“Desmond,” Ryder called again, his weapon scanning the living room—cookie-cutter furniture, cheap television facing a recliner. On the TV table beside the chair were several books:
Marketing Principles, The Small Business Guide to the Future, Essentials of Entrepreneurship.
Ryder followed his gun to the kitchen. The counter held a half-dozen boxes of sweetened cereal and a rolled-closed bag of Cheezos. An opened
can of Mountain Dew sat beside a toaster. Ryder touched the can, still cold.
Sandhill stepped in, looked around, stopped dead. “Hear that?”
Ryder cocked his head. Shook it,
no.
Sandhill nodded to a shallow hallway behind the kitchen. “There it is again.” His gun in his fist, he slipped beside a closed door and knocked hard.
“Desmond, it’s the police.”
“I hear it,” Ryder whispered. “Coming from inside.”
“High low,” Sandhill said. “My break.” Ryder nodded at the signal and lowered to a crouch. Sandhill whispered off the count.
“One…two…three…”
The door exploded under the impact of Sandhill’s boot. Ryder swept in low, his weapon held two-handed and scanning. Sandhill stood by the doorframe, covering from above. The room stunk of seared flesh. Ryder’s eyes were first to register the spectacle.
“Oh lord.”
Desmond lay naked on the bed, his skin white as lard except for a patchwork of char black and angry red from his navel to his knees. A gray rectangle of tape covered his lips. His wrists were roped to the bedposts, ankles lashed to the frame. Ryder ran to the spread-eagled figure as Desmond’s bowels voided.
“Mother of God. He’s been burned, tortured. I think he’s dying.”
Ryder dialed for help as Sandhill severed Desmond’s bindings, Ryder’s eyes momentarily noting the precise, almost ornate knots holding Desmond to the bed. Sandhill knelt by the shivering figure and peeled tape from its mouth.
“Desmond, listen to me. You took Jacy, right? Or you know who did.”
The figure sucked air, moaned as it exhaled. Its head lifted an inch, seemed to bob
yes
, fell back.
“Where is she?”
“Moo-on river…to be…”
“What? Come on, buddy, you can say it. Where’s Jacy?”
“Moo-tune…to be…the river…”
Sandhill shook Truman’s shoulders. “Why did you take the girls, Desmond?”
“Sell…girls. Rose fuh-fucked…up. B-buyer came back.”
“Where’s Jacy?”
“Moo-tune. To be…” Truman mumbled, froth spilling from his lips.
“I can’t understand you, partner. Louder.”
Truman’s eyes fluttered closed. Sandhill felt for a pulse at his neck. “He’s in shock. I can’t find anything. His pulse is gone.”
A wet breath rattled from Truman’s throat. “Desmond, come back,” Ryder yelled, slapping the photographer’s face.
Truman’s mouth opened and closed as if nursing, his fingers clawing Sandhill’s forearm.
“D-d-damn…Rose.”
Sandhill shook him like a rag doll. Truman Desmond’s eyes widened as if seeing some hideous creature emerging from his chest. His scream drowned in his throat and his fingers slipped from Sandhill’s arm. Truman’s eyes rolled back in his head and a wet gasp fluttered through his lips.
“He’s dying, Ryder.”
Ryder grimaced, cleared Desmond’s airway, then knelt beside the bed and attempted to revive him with rescue breathing. After three minutes with no effect, Ryder gave up.
“He’s gone. Get out of here, Sandhill. Now.”
“I’m not leaving you to take the heat when I caused—”
“You’ve got to stay outside and keep working. I can do more from inside, be there if more information turns up.”
“Squill will nail your ass to the wall, Ryder.”
“Squill needs me to fill in blanks. Get out. Find Jacy.”
Sandhill moved to the door and paused. The sirens were closing fast. “Ryder, I’m damn sorry about getting you into all this.”
Ryder’s grin flashed beneath weary eyes. “Don’t get maudlin, Sandhill. I opened the door to the china shop. All you did was wander in.”
Tenzel Atwan jogged up the gangplank with the form over his shoulder. The guard on deck looked away, like the moment didn’t exist. Atwan carried Jacy to an equipment room deep in the bowels of
the ship and set her on the floor, her eyes bright with tears.
“You, little girl, you wait here. Not talk. Touch nothing. You don’t listen and I shoot you like I shoot muscle man.”
Atwan closed the door. Jacy centered herself in the cone of light from a solitary yellow bulb, like it was the last light in the world.
Sandhill’s tires squealed across the concrete. Things were clearing: photographer Desmond had access to elementary schoolchildren, had photos, home information. Desmond also had a helper who was athletic, perhaps appallingly powerful.
Sandhill’s phone rang. He checked the incoming number: Ryder.
“What’s up, Ryder? You still on the force?”
“Big news—fuel oil and kerosene were the flammables used on Truman, a strange combination. But the huge news is that Desmond has a brother, Roosevelt—”
“Rose,” Sandhill whispered.
“You got it. This Roosevelt lives in a scruffy, isolated bungalow about three miles from Truman’s studio. I’m at Rose Desmond’s now.”
“He’s there?”
Ryder’s voice dropped with disappointment. “Gone. But there’s a shitload of weightlifting equipment. The guy’s got pictures of himself in the bedroom; paint Roosevelt Desmond green and you got the Incredible Hulk. Listen to this: There’s
carpet missing in the living room, bent tacks in a corner.”
“The carpet LaShelle was wrapped in when her body was burned.”
“Whoops, hang on,” Ryder said. Sandhill heard a muffle of excited voices, one of them Ryder. A minute later he was back.
“New info just in: coaxial cable running from a camera and TV in the living room to a hurricane shelter out back. Cots, heater, fridge, girls’ clothing. That’s all so far. Uh, Sandhill…”
“What?”
“I think I’m about to be unemployed. Squill’s accusing us of running our own investigation. Duckworth’s been keeping Squill on high boil, repeating how you’d humiliated Squill in the past, all that crap. Squill’s so hot he says he’s taking you down personally. I get the feeling he’s dedicated to that proposition, so stay low and move fast.”
Ryder stood in the middle of Rose Desmond’s living room and clicked off the call to Sandhill. He saw Squill coming through the door and pushed his phone into his pocket. Techs and cops bustled through the small house. Drawers were on the floor, closets torn apart, furniture dismantled. Nothing indicated where Desmond might have fled. Squill strode to Ryder, almost standing on his toes. Duckworth and Bidwell followed.
“Where’s Sandhill, Ryder?” Squill snarled.
“I don’t know.”
“He knows,” Duckworth said. “Whatever game Sandhill’s running, Ryder’s in on it.”
Ryder spun to Duckworth. “There’s no fucking game, asshole. There’s three girls missing. Sandhill’s trying to find who took them.”
“The brothers took the girls. Find Roosevelt Desmond, we solve the case.”
Ryder shook his head. “It’s not that easy. The Desmonds were brokering the girls. Something
went haywire, or maybe the buyer’s simply removing witnesses, and that means the Desmonds. The buyer tortured Truman and left him to die. He’s done the same to Roosevelt or is trying to. If Rose Desmond is alive, he’s holed up somewhere. The girl or girls might not be with him.”
Squill leaned close, his shirt wrinkled, tie flapping outside his jacket. Ryder smelled hatred pouring from the man, a bitter odor.
“Sandhill knows more, doesn’t he, Ryder? Tell the sonofabitch to come in. Tell us everything he knows. It’s the only way he’ll stay out of jail.”
“He won’t do it,” Ryder said.
Duckworth stepped up. “We’ll get Sandhill, Chief. And soon. But I’ve got to check on the roadblocks and see if the techs are uncovering anything. I’ll call soon as I know something.”
Duckworth jogged toward his vehicle, dialing his phone. He paused and shot a look at the scene; bathed in the blue-and-white lights of the official vehicles, the barely controlled confusion of too many people with too little to do. For a split second, Ryder thought he saw Duckworth grin, but wrote it off to the lights and shadows.
Ryder walked from the house to the yard. He slapped a mosquito from his cheek and stared into the black woods beside Desmond’s house, spitting to remove Desmond’s taste from his mouth, futile. He again ran the horrific scene through his head: Desmond burned, the stink of meat in the air,
Desmond splayed out like a sacrifice, knotted to the bed…
The knots.
Beautiful, symmetrical knots tied where a couple half-hitches would do. Tied by hands with knots ingrained in them, like a mariner, perhaps? And the accelerants: Fuel oil and kerosene. Ships ran on fuel oil, kerosene was used to cut grease.
Ryder shot a look over his back and slipped his phone from his pocket.
The roar of Sandhill’s engine poured through the open windows. The moon was high and climbing, torn clouds tumbling across its face. He slid on to I-10, thinking
Moon. River. Tune. To be.
“Or not to be?” he mumbled. Shakespeare, Hamlet? Didn’t make sense. “Moon River” was an old song by Harold Arlen. No, Johnny Mercer.
River
made some sense. But which river? There was the Mobile, the Tensaw, the Dog, the Fish, the Magnolia and several smaller watercourses bridging the larger ones in the delta. Coastal Alabama was a webwork of rivers. He saw the lights of the eastern shore as he shifted lanes in the light traffic, wondering where to aim the truck.
Think!
Moon. River. Tune. To be. River. Be to.
Be to, his mind repeated. Alphanumeric? What would it mean if it’s 2-B or B-2?
His phone rang and he fumbled it from his pocket: Ryder again.
“What’s up, Ryder?”
“Where are you? No, don’t tell me. What’d you think about the knots holding Truman to the bed?”
“I missed Boy Scouts, Ryder. Knots are knots.”
“Not these. I think they were tied by a seaman. And Desmond was burned by substances essential to a ship. Add it to the mix, Sandhill. Maybe the river Desmond was talking about is one with freighter access. That cuts it down to…oh shit.”
“What?”
Sandhill heard a montage of loud voices, the phone fumbled, probably dropped, picked up. Ryder yelled something and another voice screamed back. Heavy breathing rasped on the other end of the connection.
“Ryder?” Sandhill whispered, his heart pounding. “Is that you?”
Squill’s voice came from the phone, barely contained fury. “Your life is
over,
you meddling bastard. If you’d left it to us—”
“To you? You’ve been as effective as a cheese-cloth condom.”
“Where you at, Sandhill? Make your life easier and come in right—”
Sandhill switched the phone off. He swept on to the off ramp, his apartment a few blocks distant. Squill disappeared from his head, replaced by the words
River. To be
or
2-B. Moon. Tune.
To which he added,
mariner
and
ship.
Sandhill blew through a red light, suddenly needing to check some things at his place before
Squill sent a team over. Or showed up himself. If it was already being reconnoitered, Squill wouldn’t have called.
Sandhill passed the darkened restaurant and saw nothing resembling a stakeout. There was an unfamiliar car on the shadowed corner, but it was a white Acura, not a car the department used in surveillance.
He parked in the alley behind a dry cleaner’s and sprinted to his quarters. He slammed drawers until he found his navigational charts of Mobile Bay. There were several places the big ships docked. He saw no 2-B’s on Dog River or in the shipyard. He moved up the bay to the Mobile River.
There!
A quarter-mile or so north of the bay, a series of piers, one to five A, two to four B, and so forth.
Two-B.
Sandhill phoned Information, dialed the number he was given.
“Mobile Bay Harbor Master’s office,” an older man’s voice said, crisp and alert. “This is Driscoll speaking.”
“This is Detective Conner Sandhill, Mobile Police, Mr Driscoll. I need info on who’s berthed at Pier 2-B about a half-mile upriver.”
A rustling of papers and Driscoll returned. “That’s the
Petite Angel.
Docked at five twenty last night. South African registry. Container cargo, dropping some, taking some.”
“Ownership?”
“MML. That’s Mattoon Maritime Limited.”
“Ma-tune?”
Moon-tune…muhntune…Matune.
Driscoll spelled the name. “It’s a medium-sized shipping line, but growing. Container ships, primarily. A few bulk carriers.”
“That’s all you know? Who’s this Mattoon?”
“South African, originally. Mid-forties, maybe going on fifty. Building the line, getting into the terminal side, too, I heard. Sharp businessman, word has it. Maybe a little, uh, odd.”
“Odd how, Mr Driscoll?”
Sandhill heard the metallic click of a Zippotype lighter followed by a pipe drawing. Driscoll said, “This is a heavy-scuttlebutt business, officer; seamen love to talk. You would too, cooped aboard a ship for weeks at a time. Of course, a man learns to take the yap with a grain or two of salt…”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Driscoll took another tug at the pipe. “Rumors suggest Mattoon lives aboard one of his ships, maybe this
Petite Angel.
Hardly ever comes off. He supposedly hires lowlifes—thieves, contrabanders and worse—but pays top dollar and then some. I used to work with a guy who skippered South American routes. Said he’d heard Mattoon was investigated in Montevideo some years back, something to do with young girls…” Sandhill heard Driscoll’s teeth champ on the pipe stem. “I’m not talking college age here, Detective.”
Sandhill’s hand went tight on the phone. He
took a deep breath and made himself focus on gathering facts.
“Crew size?”
“Ten to twelve normally.”
“That’s all?”
“How many people run a train? All a freighter needs is a captain to aim it, a few mechanical and electrical types to keep it healthy, and someone to cook the chow.”
“Your info say when it’s leaving?”
“Scheduled to disembark in two hours.”
Sandhill thanked the man and hung up. He made sure the gun at his ankle was secure, then checked the street from the window: nothing resembling surveillance, yet. He’d put a couple miles under his tires, then phone Ryder, tell him about the call to Driscoll. He jogged to the door and opened it without thinking.
His world exploded into blue sparks and ball lightning.