More Than an Echo (Echo Branson Series) (26 page)

“Missing? What does
that
mean?”

I explained. “Homeless people have been missing from the Tenderloin the last few days and I was wondering—”

He held up his hand for me to stop. “How many?”

“Smiley makes six by my count.”

He nodded, but said nothing.

“I was wondering if maybe you had something of his. I...I know this sounds weird, but—”

“But you’re going to give it to a psychic?”

“Something like that.”

Dante reached into his pocket and pulled out a small key. “I think it’s to a bike lock, but I’m not sure. Smiley gave it to me to hold in case he lost his other one. I trust you’ll bring it back.”

I nodded, taking the key.

“Good. Come with me.”

“Where are we going?”

“Someone else needs to hear this.”

When we reached
someone else
, he was a six-foot-six black man wearing green fatigues and a green beret hat. “Yo, Dante, my man!” The guy shook Dante’s hand in one of those street handshakes I can never do and pulled him into an embrace. “Whatcha got here?”

Dante straightened up and turned to me. “Echo, this is Sarge. Sarge, Echo. Echo here says my nephew has been missing and that he’s not the only one.”

The grin fell from Sarge’s large face. “No shit? How many?”

“Six. Maybe. It’s hard to tell. One is a friend of mine. Bob. He told me about the missing men one day and the next, he was one of them.” I noticed the exchange of looks between the two men. “What? What is it?”

“We’re missing some, too,” Sarge said softly. “Five in the last week. That happened in them jungles a lot. One minute, you’re sittin’ next to your buddy, the next, he’s gone and you find his head a hundred yards away.”

I pulled out my pad and pen. “Can you tell me anything at all about your missing people? Maybe if I had—”

“You a reporter?”

I nodded. “I’m not here in the capacity of a reporter. I’m here because a friend of mine is one of the missing and I owe it to him to see if I can find him. He’s a good guy.”

Sarge scratched his head. “Well, there’s Rayban, Boston, Lemming...”

“Lemming? When did he go missing?” Dante asked.

“Week ago. Someone found his dog walking by the lake.”

“Aww, man. Who would do something to old Lemming?”

“Can you describe him for me?”

They did, and gave me the names Montana and Danny Boy.

“Danny Boy isn’t really homeless. He’s choosin’ to be on the street. It’s trendy and hip these days among the younger, dumber set.”

I’d heard that before, so I made a mental note to do a story on it. Kids who have it all just throw it away so they can be different. It would be a great piece. “What does he look like?”

“White kid, brown hair, goatee, skin and bones, about yea tall. Wears one of those long black trench coat thingies.”

“How old?”

“Just a kid. He doesn’t even shave yet. Fifteen, maybe sixteen.”

“Anything else?”

“Smokes clove cigarettes. Yuck. Anyway, that’s about all. The others I only heard about.”

“So what in the Sam Hill is going on?” Dante asked.

“I haven’t a clue,” I said, putting my pad away. “I was hoping for some leads.”

“Wish we could help, but the truth is, people come and go so quickly out here.”

“But we’ll spread the word that somethin’ is definitely goin’ on. Smiley’s liked by a lotta folks.”

“Yeah, but none of us will change our ways. Crap happens. You’re just lucky if it doesn’t happen to you.”

I understood that mentality from all my years in foster care. If you weren’t the one getting beaten, you were just glad it wasn’t you and stepped out of the line of fire. “Okay, fellas, here’s my card. If you see anything, hear anything, or just want to talk, please call me. Day or night, it doesn’t matter.”

Sarge nodded slowly. “Day or night.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know any of their real names, would you?”

“I’m pretty sure Danny Boy’s real name is Danny.”

“No last name?”

He shook his head. “No way.”

“Think maybe you can find out? Anything. Where he went to high school. Was he a local kid? Any nugget that might help us get the ball rolling would be great.”

“We’ll give it our best,” Dante said. “Sarge’ll walk you back to your car. He’s like a free pass around here. No one will mess with you as long as he’s near.”

Fifteen minutes later, I was on my way back to the city, feeling even more disheartened than ever. I called Finn to let her know I had made it back in one piece. “And...you might be surprised to hear there are homeless people missing here as well. Do you have any connections with OPD? Something is going on, Finn. I just know it.” I wanted to add a more personal note, but thought that might be pushing it. Discretion was her word, not mine.

I called the Bat Cave, expecting the answering machine, but Carl answered. “Yo, Princess. How goes it?”

I told him what I knew about the guys missing in Oakland. “I need real names. I need something to be able to take to the police department. Without real names, no one will listen to me.”

“This sounds like a job for your boys. His name?”

“It’s Danny Boy.”

“And you think he’s a rich kid who’s playing homeless?”

“That’s the word, yeah.”

“You know, even without a last name, we’ll be able to come up with a couple hundred Danny’s in that area. Kid might have a blog or a Facebook account.”

“That’s a start.”

“Always here if you need us.”

“Thanks.” I hung up. I had one story that needed a rewrite and one that could be even bigger than the last. I could only hope I had what it took to bring it all together.

My inbox had a reply from Wes that simply said,
Prove it
about the doctored photo. I had the boys send me the real picture and the explanation as to how the photo had been fixed to make it look like something sordid. This time, I didn’t send the picture via e-mail. This time, I left it under his door.

When I finished the final rewrite of my story, I had less than ten minutes left until the end of my first real deadline. It was almost midnight and I was exhausted. My borrowed desk was a mess of notepads, and my mouth tasted like a troop of soldiers had walked through it with muddy boots. It had been a long day and it was time to put my first story to bed. In spite of my tired bones, I felt wonderful…until Carter popped in.

“Branson! I’m surprised to see you here. Did you manage to come up with a story?”

“A better one than yours.”

He smiled and shook his head. “May the better man win,” he said, extending his hand.

I looked at it, lowered my shields, and realized he was being sincere. Shaking his hand, I was taken aback by this turn of events. “Thank you.”

“I thought you’d bow out by now, but I hear you actually have a story. Good for you.”

“But?”

He released my hand. “No buts. It’s no fun winning a race against a lame opponent, and though I am quite sure I have the better story, you stayed in it until the very end. Bravo.”

I wasn’t sure if he was being condescending or not but didn’t want to lower my shields to find out. Some things are better left unknown. “Thanks…I think.”

“Well, Wes will choose the story he wants to run tomorrow, so why don’t you go on home and get some rest.”

He was being too nice, but I wasn’t going to look a gift reporter in the mouth even if it was him. “Carter, can I ask your opinion on something?”

“Mine? Sure.” Pulling up a chair, he turned it around and sat astride it.

“If you were on a story about a suspected serial killer and you had a list of the possible victims, how would you best utilize the list?”

Carter toyed with the cleft in his chin. “What all is on the list?”

“Just their first names.”

“Hmmm. Not much to go on. I guess I’d start looking for similarities in the victims. Serials like patterns and have very predictable habits. Are they all the same sex?”

I nodded.

“Okay. I’d line up their physical characteristics first. Look for commonalities. Then I’d use a city map and pinpoint where they lived, where they were found et cetera. You have to act like a forensic profiler and get as much detailed information on each individual as you can. Then you step back and examine the whole picture.”

“But without last names?”

“Names are only part of the picture, Branson. If you look at the bigger picture, sometimes it’s clear enough to lead you to the smaller details. Go with what you have until you can dig up some more. That’s Journalism one-oh-one.”

I thanked him and then started for the door.

“You working on a serial killer story, Branson?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

“Well, be careful.” He held the door open for me. “If you scoop my next story, I’m going to have to kill you.”

I nodded. “Fair enough. Are you still on the story about Mayor Lee and illegals?”

“Maybe.”

I groaned. “That’s tabloid crap, Carter. Can’t you do better than that?”

“It’s an election year, Branson. People want to know if our city’s leader is on the up-and-up before reelecting him.”

I shook my head. “Dirt is dirt.”

“And your story is clean?”

I nodded. “It is.”

“Well, good luck with that. Someday you’ll realize that clean is lean, and if it bleeds it leads. Again--”

“I know…Journalism one-oh-one.” Pushing out the door, I realized something. Suddenly, I was really missing Tip’s help.

I woke up the next morning and flew out of bed to get my paper. I couldn’t wait to see if my first byline had hit the stands or if I would be hitting the unemployment line again.Ripping the rubber band off the paper, I was stunned to see that my story had made the the front page. The front page!

Grabbing the phone, I called Wes Bentley.

“It’s a little early, Echo,” his secretary informed me. “Oh, wait. I see he has a message for you. It says:
proof received. Well done. Not why your piece made it, however. It was a better story.

“Thanks,” I said, hanging up and doing my happy dance. I even gave Tripod some catnip so he could dance with me. Then I called Danica and left a message thanking her and the boys for a job well done and to pick up the paper and read my story about the missing homeless guys.

After showering and doing more happy dancing, I grabbed some day olds from Luigi drove Ladybug to the office parking lot and waited next to Carter’s parking space. I didn’t have to wait long. He came roaring up and slammed on the brakes of the beautiful silver Lexus.

I also got out and joined him behind the car.

He looked at me. He hadn’t shaved and his eyes were red. “Old Man Bentley must be losing it to pass up a story like that. I wonder if you must have dirt on Wes.”

“It couldn’t just be that I have a better story, huh? That supposed exposé on a story that doesn’t exist? Truth is, Carter, I may have just saved your job.”

He laughed derisively. “Don’t get too full of yourself, Branson.”

I shrugged. “It’s true. Dig a little deeper, Carter. You’ll see. What appeared to be a sexual  relationship was not. You’d have had another retraction on your hands for sure.”

He studied me a moment as he reached in his back pocket. “Moot point. Wes quashed it for your…umm…story. You won. I honor my bets.” Handing me the pink slip and the keys to the Lexus, he shook his head. “I can’t figure you out, Branson.”

Taking the keys and the pink slip, I shrugged. “I’m not a story, Carter. I am just a woman trying to get her footing in a job I’ve always wanted. You seem compelled to try to get in my way or at least prevent that. It would please me to no end if we could bury the hatchet and move forward as colleagues.”

“Colleagues? Branson, you’re barely a stringer who’s on a hot streak. We all get lucky from time to time. Do not presume that your winning has anything to do with real investigative skill. The homeless as a lead story? Puhlease.”

“Maybe so, but I’ve kicked your ass twice. You now have the choice of being on my side or against me. I see no reason why there has to be so much tension. I think I have a lot to learn from you. It’s your call.”

Rubbing his face, he started for the office. “That’s one call I am too tired to make at this moment. Enjoy your victory, Branson. Let’s hope it’s not a Pyrrhic one.”

When he entered the building, I opened the Lexus door and jumped in. Guilt-Be-Gone. I may have
earned
this, but I had no intention of keeping it. I promised myself a long time ago, if there was ever a time I could repay Big George for saving my life, I would. That time was now. He was the one who saved me; who gave me a chance at a new life. You don’t give crumbs to someone who does that while you eat the lion’s share. He deserved the best money had to offer, and right now, I was sitting in it: gray leather interior, dark wood on the dash, this car was something you could live in.