Battle Scars (7 page)

I studied the clock. 3:32 A.M.

I wasn’t impressed.

Jazz jumped up on the bed and curled into a fat white ball on Bran’s pillow with a growly purr. She reached out and grabbed my hand, latching on with her claws. A tug had my fingers tucked under her paws where she licked my skin, still purring.

Cats give the best therapy.

I stroked her soft fur with my free hand and turned out the light.

Chapter Four

I woke up with a start, my mind cataloguing the noises and giving them names.

Key. Front door.

Bran.

4:47 A.M.

I lay there in the darkness, not moving. Jazz shuffled a little closer and began to lick my hand.

Heavy footsteps on the stairs. A muted curse as he failed to negotiate the corner and banged his arm.

He smelled of smoke—wood and marijuana. A touch of beer.

Angie.

But not of sex.

Just her scent, all over him like a bad overdose of aftershave.

The clothing went into a pile on the floor on his side of the bed, right where he could trip over them getting in and out. He shuffled back and forth for a minute, probably trying to decide whether to shower or not.

Exhaustion won out.

Jazz let out an annoyed trill as he pushed her to one side, grunting at her slow retreat. The fat cat stomped on my leg on the way to the bottom of the mattress where she curled up into a ball and began to snore.

Bran slipped under the sheets and pulled me close with a contented sigh.

I didn’t say anything. Instead I closed my eyes and tried to get back to sleep.

“You’re awake,” he whispered in my ear. “I can tell, you know.”

I stayed quiet.

“No luck finding the kids. I stayed until they all passed out or fell asleep. Some of them think they spotted Evan with a group of musicians over on Spadina but they weren’t sure. I’ll check it out tomorrow.”

I said nothing. His arm tightened around my waist.

“Angie was there. She came in with the overnight van.”

I stiffened in his grip.

“I know.” I turned over, presenting my back to him. “I heard her on the phone when you called.”

“I didn’t sleep with her.”

“I know.”

He said nothing and I fell into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

I woke up to the smell of fresh coffee and cinnamon rolls. Jazz was still at the foot of the bed and stretched out her long legs as I sat up and tugged on a fresh T-shirt and jeans. She yawned, displaying yellowed teeth, and hopped off to lead me downstairs where my apology brekka waited.

The clock read 7:38 A.M.

My coffee, sugar and milk already added, sat at the small table already. A fat freshly-baked cinnamon roll lay on a plate, holding up a folded piece of paper.

I padded over and sat down.

Rebecca—I decided to head out early because I couldn’t sleep.
I’ll call later on to let you know if I’ve found the kids.

Don’t worry about Angie.
I
won’t see her again.

Bran

I crumpled the note up in one hand and reached for the coffee with the other. Jazz let out a merp as she lay down by her food bowl. I sipped the coffee while dumping a cupful of kibble in her dish.

“Your master’s a fool,” I told her. “He’s getting all tangled up in this and he doesn’t have to.”

Jazz dunked her face in the bowl and began munching.

“I mean, I appreciate the help. It’s not like having two of us looking won’t be better than one.” I pulled one corner of the cinnamon bun off. It was still warm and doughy. I suspected if I checked the oven there’d be others sitting there, waiting to be devoured.

Jazz licked her lips and moved to the water bowl. She leaned across the dish and began to lap from the far side, dunking her chest in the water.

“Damned bitch is still hot for him.” I washed down the sugary bite with a mouthful of coffee. “Goddamn hero worship. Could have looked him up years ago but she waited until he walked into her lair, walked into her damned house. I should have known better than to let him get involved in this.”

Jazz looked up, her chin dripping.

“Bastard.” I shoved the rest of the bun into my mouth. “Cinnamon is good to keep your blood pressure down. He knew I’d need this.”

Jazz laid down by the food bowl, exhausted by her efforts.

“It’s a good thing you can’t talk.” I put the empty plate and mug into the sink. “Otherwise you’d have to tell me what a jealous bitch I am and I’d have to kill you.”

She rolled onto her back and closed her eyes.

* * *

My first stop was over on Queen Street West to a handful of soup kitchens delivering breakfast to street youth. It was a far cry from cinnamon rolls and coffee, but the boxes of cold cereal, cartons of milk and juice boxes offered at least some attempt at a healthy start to the day. The workers shrugged when I showed them the pictures. They saw so many young men and women going through that the faces turned into a never-ending blur.

I thought back to Stacy Hampton, the social worker over at Second Chance, Second Life a few blocks away. There was a chance Bran had already visited her but it wouldn’t hurt to check.

I also didn’t discount the possibility that Bran intentionally omitted it due to his family’s connection.

A short hop on a streetcar brought me back to the renovated storefront. No one was hanging around the door—they didn’t open until noon. A hand lettered sign on the front door announced reporters were not welcome and no statements would be made. A lawyer’s phone number completed the visual slapdown.

I went around the back and rang the doorbell on the receiving dock. A thick-necked man opened the door and glared at me.

“You ain’t no delivery girl.”

“Thanks for the update. I’m here to see Stacy. Tell her Rebecca Desjardin is here.” I eyed the prison tattoos on his knuckles. “She’ll see me.”

“She ain’t seeing no reporters,” the human wall rumbled. “Didn’t you see the note on the front door?”

“I’m not a reporter. I’m a private investigator.”

“A what?”

“A P.I. Just like you see in the movies. Except I’m shorter.” I winked. “And cuter.”

His lips curled up into something resembling a smile. “Stay here.” The door slammed shut in my face.

I rocked back and forth on my heels, listening to the chatter inside. Felis hearing didn’t mean I could listen through walls but it did make it easier to eavesdrop.

One man arguing about the quality of bread dropped off by a local bakery. Another complaining about his probation officer busting his balls for missing an appointment. A series of curses from my original greeter as he approached the door, most of them involving body parts I didn’t possess.

It opened all the way this time.

“Stacy says to take you to her office.” The large man smiled again. “Follow me, please.”

I followed him past the two men working on the dock, busy loading boxes of fresh broccoli onto tables to be sorted.

Stacy’s office hadn’t changed from the last time I’d been there, the motivational posters of penguins and kittens still extolling viewers to do their best and never give up.

“Ms. Desjardin. Good to see you.” She waved me into the empty chair as she closed the door. “Thanks, John.”

The ex-con left us alone.

I sat down. “How are you doing?”

It wasn’t an idle question. When the story behind the murder of Molly Callendar and the kidnapping of her newborn son had come out, the media had hammered on the charity’s door non-stop, looking for more lurid details about the life and death of Keith Shaw.

Not many organizations could have taken the scrutiny and survived.

I wasn’t sure this one had.

She looked exhausted, the dark circles under her eyes poking through the make-up. Her shoulders slumped under the cream-colored blouse.

“Better than can be expected.” The blonde nodded toward the docks. “Fellows are on their best behavior since the incident, afraid the place’ll shut down if there’s another problem and they’ll have to go find something else. They’ve been great.”

The elephant in the room sat between us.

“I wasn’t sure you’d see me.” I sat back, letting the brown envelope holding the photographs flop around. “I wouldn’t have blamed you for telling me to screw off.”

“You’re not to blame for anything. You were looking for a killer and you found him.” Stacy let out a weary sigh. “It’s just too bad it was one of my boys. We try and we try but you can’t save everyone.”

I nodded. The fallout over Shaw had gone deep into the charity and the organizations who contributed to it. If the shelter survived another year they’d be out of the headlines but it’d be a hard, rough year for Stacy and her staff.

“But that’s in the past.” She leaned forward wearing a tired smile, her elbows on the thin brown desk organizer. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for two teenagers.” I slid the photographs across the table. “I know you usually only get older folks here but I figured it was worth a shot.”

Stacy turned them to face her and studied the cheerful faces. “Can I keep these?”

“Sure.” I rattled the envelope. “I’ve got extras.”

“I’ll put them up by the serving area so my people can see them. They rotate through serving and clean-up duties but you never know.” She paused and I saw the curiosity in her eyes.

I didn’t say anything. Sometimes silence is as good as giving permission.

“How is Mr. Hanover doing?”

For a second I thought she was talking about Michael, Bran’s father and I wondered why she’d be asking me about a man who’d tried to blackmail me and destroy my life. “Oh you mean Bran. He’s doing okay.”

“We were shocked by the entire situation. It was just—” She pushed the pictures to one side, shaking her head. “I still can’t wrap my mind around it.” She drew a deep breath. “Is he helping you look for these runaways?”

“Yes.” I didn’t feel compelled to explain why Bran wasn’t there with me.

“Does he seem, well, obsessed with finding them?”

I took a minute to answer. “He’s been in touch with one of the ‘kids’ from his article. Came across her at another outreach. She got her act together and got a job helping street kids out.”

“Hmm.” Stacy looked over at one of the motivational posters. “Is she doing well?”

“Better than before.” The sarcasm in my tone wasn’t intentional.

Stacy licked her lips before speaking, her eyebrows drawing together. “I may be speaking out of turn but you understand this may be a bit traumatic for him.”

“I know he was quite invested in the street life.” I’d read Bran’s article not long after we’d gotten together. It was intense and vibrant and deserved every accolade it got.

“Then you know about DJ.” Stacy picked up on my blank response. “Dan and Jane. The two doomed lovers and all that.”

I shifted on the cold metal seat. “I know about them.”

“Street kids called them DJ because they hung together all the time, couldn’t pull them apart. Word was that even in death they had their arms around each other.” She looked down at the images. “I always enjoyed that part in the article about Brandon and the two runaways bonding over a couple of joints and a case of beer. Seemed almost too good to be true but I know Brandon wouldn’t lie.”

She was right, in a way.

It wasn’t a total lie.

The real story hadn’t gotten into print, hadn’t even been a series of pencil scribbles in his notebook.

I’d quizzed Bran on that after reading the article and sensing something was missing, something more than the simple tale he’d woven.

Some of the kids, for a mean laugh, had spiked Bran’s drink with a heavy street narcotic. It was a hazing of sorts, a test to see if the smart-ass reporter was worthy of hanging with them.

They figured it’d knock Bran down for the night, have him pissing his pants and acting like a fool.

They were wrong.

Bran, instead of lying down and babbling like a baby, had leaped up and headed for the open street, screaming and yelling. It was rush hour and odds were good he’d have been hit within a few seconds of jumping into the middle of Queen Street.

Dan had tackled him, tossing Bran to the ground and wrestling him into submission before dragging Bran back to the camp. Jane had helped the delirious reporter and kept him safe as he worked through six hours of hallucinations and fever, finally erupting in what Bran recalled as the longest session of projectile vomiting he’d ever suffered through.

It was cliché to say that he owed the kids his life but it was the truth.

He’d put a sanitized version in the article, leaving out the near-suicide and toning it down to a quiet night of smoking dope and bonding with the two kids.

The truth was the pair had saved his life and he’d never forgotten the debt he owed to them.

He’d also never gotten the chance to pay them back.

Stacy continued. “I don’t know Mr. Hanover as well as you do but I don’t think I’m reaching to say he might be trying to relive the situation through searching for these two and possibly in his dealings with this other woman.”

I felt like I’d been smacked with a two-by-four. “What?”

Stacy tapped the photographs. “From what I understand, Mr. Hanover’s biggest regret is not being able to get those two out of danger, the ones from his article. Now he has two new kids to worry about, two young people that could meet the same fate.” She turned the photos around to face me. “He wants to save them and by proxy feel that he’s redeemed himself, at least in his own mind. Add in the reappearance of one member of the original group and he has a chance to help this survivor as well. He can finally finish up his personal business with his past by dealing with this in the present.” She smiled. “I’m not a psychologist, before you ask. But I see this sort of thing a lot and after a while you spot the signs.” Her gaze went to the closed door. “We have people cycle through here all the time wanting to help and they slip into that tar pit of emotions—get all caught up in wanting to ‘save’ people who may not want to be saved in the way someone’s thinking.” Her fingers ran over the pile of file folders stacked to her right. “You may think you know what’s best for a person but you have to let them decide in the end. You can’t force them into a new life. They have to want to change. And sometimes you have to watch them walk back into the fire and let them go.”

“Bran’s not that type of guy,” I replied, even though my mind was already processing the concept. “He wouldn’t get hung up like that.”