Nightcrawlers: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Mystery) (14 page)

He went back inside and dumped everything in the purse out on the kitchen table. Wallet first. Driver’s license . . . Tamara Corbin, age twenty-six, San Francisco address. And another one issued by the State Board of Licences that proved she really was a private investigator. Young black woman like that, a private cop. Women these days, didn’t matter what color they were, they had all kinds of jobs you’d think were just for men. That was all right by him. He didn’t have any prejudice against women earning a living so long as they didn’t take jobs away from family men. But a private cop . . . he didn’t like that. Not one bit.

He rummaged around among the rest of the stuff. All women’s purse junk except for a folded piece of paper. He unfolded it, saw that it was a computer printout. Then he saw what it said and his head started to throb again, that heavy throbbing ache behind his eyes. He squeezed them shut and jammed the heels of his hands against the socket bones and pressed and pressed until the pain began to ease some. He looked at the paper again, read everything that was printed there.

His name, his address, the kind of car he drove, where he worked, where he was born and the places he’d lived and who he’d been married to . . . his whole
life!
The hell she was after some deadbeat father hiding out on this block, the hell she’d
made a mistake about the address. It was him she was after. Her car parked right out front, prowling around the property, listening for Angie and wasn’t surprised to see her. That was why she was here, why she was after him. Take Angie away from him.

But how? How’d she find out?

Nobody’d seen him take the girl, he was sure of that. Nobody could know, but Dark Chocolate knew. How could she know?

Who else knew?

Not the police, they’d’ve taken Angie away from him by now if they did. Just Dark Chocolate, or somebody else at that detective agency of hers?

He’d find out. He’d get it out of her, one way or another.

No matter what, he couldn’t stay here, couldn’t wait until the weekend like he’d planned to head east. Not him, not Angie, not Dark Chocolate. Leave now or wait until morning? He wasn’t thinking clearly anymore, couldn’t make up his mind. The pain was like fire behind his eyes. He jammed his hands against the socket bones again, pinched his eyeballs. It didn’t get any better, it wouldn’t go away.

Oh God, the things he’d done when he couldn’t make it go away . . .

Bad minute or two after he locked her in the closet and she heard him leave. Alone, trapped in the dark . . . it brought on another scare rush. Shortness of breath, cold sweat, a crazy impulse to beat on the door with her fists, bang her head against it, punish herself for being so fucking stupid. Prowling around where she had no business, letting herself get caught like this. He’d never let her go now that she’d seen the kid. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

The little girl was crying again in the room. Deep, wracking sobs.
She’s more scared than I am, got more to be scared of
. The thought brought anger back, and the anger brought calm. She made herself take slow, shallow breaths until the tightness in her chest eased; last thing she needed was to start hyperventilating. All right. Better. Hot, stuffy in there; she shrugged out of her coat, used the hem to wipe sweat off her face and neck, dropped it on the floor and kicked it to one side.

What was that smell? Mold? Okay, now she was a mouth-breather.

The closet was small and tight, not much bigger than one of those portable toilets. No matter which way she stood, she couldn’t lift her arms up and out more than halfway before her hands touched wood. Nothing in it except a metal clothes rod that grazed and knocked her head until she got used to where it was. She wasn’t claustrophobic, but being shut up in a box like this did funny things to your head. No wonder some people had a horror of waking up in their own coffin, being buried alive. Suppose he kept her locked up in here until she suffocated or died of starvation or went batshit crazy—

She bit her lip, hard enough to hurt. None of that crap, Tamara, you quit that right now. Worrying, running your imagination just gonna make you lose it big time. Stay cool. You didn’t panic last Christmas and that was a worse scene than this, that dude was an out-of-control psycho and he had more fire-power than a SWAT team. This Lemoyne’s not anywhere near as whacked out and all he’s got is one ugly little revolver, looks like those Saturday night specials the gangbangers in the ‘hood carry. You can get out of this if you stay cool, use your head.

Yeah, sure. He outweighs me by seventy-five pounds. And he’s got that gun. And he’s out there somewhere and I’m locked up in this closet. Man’s a kidnapper, maybe worse—and crazy and dangerous no matter how near normal he looks. The way he went off on me, violence boiling up in him sudden like that. The way he kept saying he was that little girl’s daddy, calling her Angie as if he really believes she’s his daughter. Wasn’t an act, he meant it, and that’s no way sane.

Was that why he picked her, because she looks like his
daughter? What’s he intend to do to her, what’s he already done?

The room out there, this closet, the locks on the doors . . . all just to hold this one kid? Or had there been others? How many others?

Now that her eyes had adjusted, she could make out faint strips of light at the bottom of the door, around the edges. She tried to get her fingers into the cracks, couldn’t do it; the door was tight in the jamb. Wouldn’t’ve done her any good anyway. No knob on this side, probably bolted on the outside. She felt all the way around the walls, squatted and felt the floorboards. Solid wood. No lie when he’d said there was no way out of here.

The little girl was still crying in rackety sobs. Tamara could hear, almost feel her terror. There’d never been much of a maternal streak in her, but she felt one now—a mothering urge to protect and comfort so strong it surprised her. What’d the child say her name was? Laura? No, Lauren.

She put her mouth close to one of the cracks. “Lauren, you hear me? Come on over here, honey.”

Had to say it again twice before the crying stopped. Faint squeak of bed springs, hesitant footsteps. Then, low and teary, “I don’t like it here, I want to go home.”

“I know you do. So do I, Lauren.”

“You know my name.”

“Sure I do. Mine’s Tamara.”

“That man calls me Angie. Why’s he do that?”

“He had a little girl named Angie once. Maybe you look like her.”

“Where is she now?”

“I don’t know. Maybe her mama took her away somewhere, a long way away where her daddy can’t find her.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”
But I can sure guess
.

Sniffling sounds. Then, “Why’d he put you in the closet? It’s dark in there.”

“He’s a bad man, that’s why.”

“He keeps saying he’s my daddy. He’s not my daddy.”

“He’s not anybody’s daddy anymore.”

“He said I could go home if I didn’t throw up or wet the bed again.”

“Where do you live?”

“I’m scared. Why can’t I go home?”

“Where’s home? Where do you live?”

“Vallejo.”

“Where in Vallejo?”

“On Patterson Street. Our house is number one-sixty-three.”

Went all the way up there to snatch the kid. Why?

“You know him, honey, the man who brought you here?”

“No. I was playing in the park. Mama was there but she went to the bathroom and then he was there.”

“Never saw him before he took you away?”

“Uh-uh. He grabbed me and wrapped me up in a blanket and put me in a car. He said I had to be quiet or else.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“I threw up in the car. All over the blanket.”

“Did he hurt you, Lauren?”

“No.”

“Take your clothes off? Touch you where he shouldn’t?”

“Uh-uh.”

Something, anyway.

“What’d he say after he brought you here?”

“He said if I was a good girl I could go home. He gave me a doll to play with, but I don’t like it, it’s a white doll. I wish I had Alana Michelle.”

“Who’s Alana Michelle?”

“My doll. She’s African-American. I’m just half African-American ‘cause my daddy’s white. Mama helped me braid her hair just like mine. I don’t think you can braid the white doll’s hair.”

“What else did the man say to you?”

“He said he loved me.”

The words put ice on Tamara’s spine.

“How can he love me?” Lauren said. “He doesn’t know me and I don’t know him. He’s not my daddy. I don’t want to go with him to the trailer.”

“What trailer, honey?”

“I don’t know. He said we were going to a trailer in the woods and there’d be a big surprise for me and we’d have lots of fun. But I don’t want to go.”

“What woods? Where?”

“I don’t know. There’s deer and elk around. What’s a elk?”

“A big animal like a deer. Did he say what the surprise was? What kind of fun?”

“No. Can you have fun with a elk?”

“Not unless you’re another elk. Lauren—”

“I have to go to the bathroom,” she said.

She went away. Tamara started to straighten up, changed her mind, and sat on the floor with her back against the wall and her knees pulled up. Trailer in the woods, deer and elk around.
That could be anywhere. Someplace isolated, for sure, where he could be alone with Lauren and show her his big surprise and they’d have “fun.” Warped son of a bitch.

But he’d had her more than twenty-four hours and he hadn’t done anything to her yet. Maybe he wasn’t a pedophile, maybe he’d snatched the kid for some other whacko reason. Maybe he really believed she was his daughter and he had no intention of hurting her. Yeah, and pigs can fly and world peace is coming next Tuesday. Gearing up to it, that was all. Or prolonging it, savoring what he planned to do.

What was
she
gonna do? What could she do? Try to reason with him, that was one thing. If he wasn’t so far gone he wouldn’t listen to reason. She could be pretty persuasive. Silver Tongue Tamara. Talk at him, lay on the jive, convince him to let the kid go, let both of them go, and then turn himself in so he can get some help—

More flying pigs.

Have to try, though. Must be some good in him, a side she could appeal to. Use soft rap on him, don’t show fear, and make real sure not to say or do anything to push his buttons.

The toilet flushed. Another running water sound—Lauren washing her hands. Kid was well behaved and had been raised right. Pretty soon the floorboards creaked as she came back to the closet.

“Lady? Tamara?”

She leaned forward. “Yeah, honey?”

“When he comes back, that man, will you tell him to take me home?”

“Sure I will.”

“Tell him I miss my mama and daddy. My real daddy.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“Thank you.” Then, “Is he gonna hurt you?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Don’t let him hurt me either, okay?”

Between her teeth: “Okay. You go on back to bed now, keep warm. And try not to cry anymore.”

“My mama says big girls don’t cry.”

“Your mama’s right,” she lied.

She sat in the new silence, shallow-breathing through her mouth. Working out what she’d say to Lemoyne when she saw him again—a way to occupy her mind so she wouldn’t be thinking and imagining too much. She got it pretty much straight, but after a while it didn’t matter much. So hot and airless in there it was like her brain was drying up, all the cells melting and oozing out with her sweat.

The little girl was quiet. Asleep now, maybe. Poor kid must be worn out. Being scared had a way of doing that to you, making you ache all over, so damn tired you could hardly keep your eyes open. Fear and quiet and not enough air and too much heat . . .

All of a sudden she was out of her doze, groggy for a few seconds and then with her senses sharply alert. Noises out there—key sounds, lock rattling. He was back.

She tried to stand up too fast. A cramp in her right calf kept her down until she twisted around and got her foot jammed up straight against the wall. The pain eased and she was able to lift up and catch hold of the clothes rod, haul herself upright. Sweat streamed on her skin; every part of her felt soggy, like she’d taken a sauna in her clothes.

He was in the room now. Lauren was awake, too, said something in a voice too low for Tamara to catch. He yelled at
the child to shut up, go back to sleep, and the force of the words started her crying again.

Then he was at the closet door, rattling on the lock out there. Breathing hard, almost snorting like a bull in heat. He had trouble getting the lock open, swore at it, finally yanked it loose. Tamara pressed back against the wall as he tore the door open.

Oh, shit!

One look at him looming there against the light, all fire-eyed and smoke-dark, and the sweat on her turned to icy jelly.

T
amara didn’t show up for work on Wednesday morning.

The offices were locked when I got there a little before nine-thirty. My first thought was that she’d been there and had to go out for some reason, but if that had been the case she would’ve left a message on my desk and there was no message. None on the answering machine, either. In the five years we’d worked together, she had only missed a total of four days without advance notice—a three-day bout with the flu and an impacted tooth that had needed immediate attention. On both those occasions she’d notified me right away.

Illness or emergency, I thought, sudden and serious enough to prevent her from calling in. Either way it was cause for concern. I rang up her apartment in the Outer Sunset, counted off a dozen rings before I disconnected. Then I tried her cellphone number. Out of service.

Worrisome, but nothing to get alarmed about yet. For all I knew she was on her way in right now and the delay would turn out to be minor after all.

I did a little work, and some time passed, and when she still didn’t show up I stood again and went into her office. The paper file on George DeBrissac was on her desk. I read through it, and there was nothing there that rang any alarm bells. Simple, straightforward case of nonpayment of child support; by all indications DeBrissac seemed to be your average white-collar deadbeat dad. While I was poking around among the other files and papers on her desk—nothing unusual in them, either—I heard the outer door open. But it wasn’t Tamara. Jake Runyon. I motioned to him to join me in my office.