Gone Cold (20 page)

“You hope so? Where else would she go?”

“A drugs den, maybe. She’s hooked, thanks to her old man.”

“Hooked on what?”

“Skag, mon. Brown. Gear. Horse. Smack. Whatever you want to call it.”

“And she can’t get heroin at home?”

“I don’t allow that shite in my house, mon. I am clean. I only smoke ganja, have an occasional drink to celebrate.”

I changed course. “How old is she, Lennox?”

“She says she’s twenty-three.”

“What do you mean, ‘She
says
she’s twenty-three?’”

“I mean, I asked her once da year of her birth, and it took her counting on her fingers to answer me.”

I thought about what Quigg said when I asked him if Shauna could possibly be eighteen.
“She’d have to be an auld soul, I think.”

“What else do you know about her past?”

“Nothing, mon. Only what she tells me. She says she grew up in London, says that’s all I need to know.”

“She returns there? To London, I mean.”

“Only once in a while.”

“Where in London?”

“I have no idea, mon. She tells me nothing about London. But when she comes back to Liverpool, she’s sometimes carrying matches for a pub in da East End.”

“What’s the name of this pub?”

“Da name of da pub is Night’s End, innit?”

“Do you know if she has any contacts in London?”

“Besides her old man? None dat I know of.”

“How about here? Does she have any friends in Liverpool?”

“She’s got only me, mon. My mates are her mates.”

I rose from my chair. “I want you to take your ID and slide it under the door. Nice and slowly.”

He did as he was told.

“One more question,” I said. “Why would a private investigator have followed Shauna up to Dublin?”

He chuckled benignly. “You said before you’re a private investigator, right? So why don’t you tell me?”

Chapter 40

TWELVE YEARS AGO

At midnight, I labor down the stairs and find Tasha seated alone at the kitchen table, staring down at the phone.

“Another prank?” I ask.

She nods but says nothing.

I go to the fridge, sit across from her with a cold bottle of Dasani in my hand. I’m not even thirsty. These past few weeks I’ve found myself walking around with bottles of water and soda, mugs of coffee, cups of tea without ever putting my lips to them. They’re just props, there to occupy my hands so that I don’t find myself biting my nails or picking at the skin around my thumbs.

“It’s difficult to get used to the quiet,” I say.

Tasha’s expression doesn’t change. She’s been worse these past couple of days as more and more feds are taken off the case, sent out on other assignments. There’s a political scandal in Washington and it’s been filling the front pages, replacing Hailey’s story inch by inch by precious inch.

“It was bound to happen,” I say.

I fix on her eyes, red-rimmed and empty, her entire body sagging beneath an unfathomable weight. I want to take her in my arms, lift her from her chair, put my lips to hers, and carry her upstairs. But it’s too late for any of that. She hates me. And she has every right to. Regardless of what happened, I’ve been a bastard to her, and I deserve it if she decides tonight to pack her bags and take a limo to her parents and never come back. All our blaming each other, the endless back and forth, it didn’t help one bit in finding Hailey. All it did was wreck what little we had left in the world.

Tears stream down her face. I say nothing, just watch them fall as I’ve done all along.

She dips into her pocket, removes a pill bottle. Unscrews the childproof cap and drops two tablets into her palm. I’ve given up trying to identify which pills she’s taking and how many and how often. I’ve given up on just about everything at this point.

She reaches across the table. For an instant, I think she’s reaching for my hand. But no. She’s reaching for my bottle of Dasani.

I slide it across the table to her. Say, “We’ve done everything we can, Tash.”

She swallows her pills but doesn’t reply, doesn’t so much as glance in my direction.

“We’ve put up thousands of flyers, we’ve combed the wooded areas, we’ve made countless pleas on local and national television. There’s nothing else we can do at this point.”

“
Isn’t there though?
” she suddenly shouts at me.

The fact that she’s spoken at all, let alone at such volume, startles me.

Calmly I say, “We’ve been at this for weeks, Tash. We followed the FBI’s instructions to the letter. It kills me but there’s nothing else for us to do.”

“
Isn’t there though?
”

“We can drive around more if you’d like. We can hop in the SUV right now and take a ride through the District. Is that what you want to do?”

No answer.

“Rendell and West, they’re continuing to do everything they can too. We can’t fault them, Tash. They want to return our daughter home to us, and they’re doing their damnedest. They’re only taking agents off the case now because there’s nothing those agents can do.”

“Isn’t there though?” she mutters softly through her tears.

She drops her face into her hands and I stand, move behind her to take her into my arms, but she pushes me away with what little strength she has left in her.

Her eyelids are drooping. Which means she’s taken a muscle relaxer or several tranquilizers. Maybe both, I don’t know. I’ve asked before and she assures me it’s none of my business and I’ve since conceded she’s right.

Where are you, Hailey?

The images that materialize in my head when I ask myself that question night after night are becoming too painful even to contemplate.

Locked rooms.

Underground bunkers.

Attics, basements.

Beds with badly soiled sheets. Handcuffs wrapped around rusted pipes. Bed sores and lacerated wrists and ankles.

Blood pooling on a cement floor.

Vomit rising.

Sitting in her own feces as she waits.

Thinking of me. Of Tasha.

Until she sees that face.

Her captor, his visage pixelated in my mind so that I can’t make him out.

Him. Approaching. Slowly, as he always does. Replacing all her other thoughts with terror.

What does he want from her now?

I see him coming for her but I’m helpless to stop him.

With a closed fist, he delivers a strike to her battered face.

Rips off her tattered clothes.

She screams.

The screams of my six-year-old daughter echo in every chamber of my mind.

And there’s nothing I can do to save her.

Isn’t there though?
Tasha cries.
Isn’t there though?

Aloud I say, “We’ll die if we continue on like this, Tash.”

She says nothing.

I say nothing more.

I lift my bottle of Dasani off the table and head back upstairs, alone.

Chapter 41

The apartment Lennox Sterling shared with Shauna Adair was located in Croxteth, an impoverished neighborhood that, according to Ostermann’s contact at the Merseyside Police, had recently become synonymous with gang violence. Evidence of this assertion could be found on at least one of the four corners of virtually every block, including the intersection I just passed, where a group of hooded teenagers loitered with lit cigarettes and tall aluminum cans poorly disguised inside brown paper bags.

I parked the Grand Cherokee that Gilchrist had lent Ashdown across the street from Sterling’s building. After killing the engine, I sat stock-still in the darkness, watching the rearview mirror. A pair of headlights turned left at the end of the last block and no others followed. So I opened the door, climbed out of the SUV, and moved slowly toward my destination.

Ashdown and Zoey had remained behind in Kensington with Kordell Rickets, Jomo Newell, and Lennox Sterling himself. Whether it was from the high levels of THC running through their bloodstreams or they were mellow by nature, I didn’t know. But the three of them took their instructions rather well. Especially once Ashdown flashed his badge. From their demeanor it seemed they were accustomed to dealing with the police, not as adversaries but as grudging partners in a dirty business. Which should have come as no surprise. Weapons dealers rarely operated successfully without the cooperation of law enforcement, not just in the UK but around the globe.

When I reached the building I slipped my good hand into my pocket and retrieved Sterling’s keys. A feeling of déjà vu arrived—and just as quickly passed—as I turned the key in the outer door. For a moment I’d been transported back to the concrete steps leading to my building on Dumbarton Street in D.C., where only a few nights ago I’d curled up like a ball in the freezing cold after realizing I’d misplaced my keys.

This time I opened the door without incident and started up the rickety stairs toward the third floor. I located apartment 3-F and used a second key to unlock the dead bolt. A moment later I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.

A wave of emotion threatened to overwhelm me. Was it possible that after twelve years I was standing in the entryway of the Liverpool flat occupied by my daughter? The very thought of it seemed surreal. And yet, for the first time in those twelve years, it felt entirely possible.

I took another step forward into the apartment. The place was old and worn but clean. It smelled of smoke but also of incense and potpourri—an unmistakable female touch that stirred something inside me.

What struck me most, however, was the fact that the apartment felt happy. Unlike my studio on Dumbarton Street, this flat was a place where life was lived. In the kitchen, there were Post-it notes on the refrigerator. All the necessary appliances: a toaster, a microwave, a panini grill, a blender. Even an espresso machine.

In the living room hung photos of the happy couple. Lennox with his well-toned arms around Shauna in front of a pub. Shauna with her lips on Lennox’s cheek in a park somewhere outside the city. The couple holding hands on a bridge in Wales. A young man and woman in love. Not just sharing an apartment but sharing a life. Making a home.

The more I saw the more I smiled, until it started to dawn on me that this young woman couldn’t have spent most of the past twelve years locked away in a basement, crying for her mother and father. It couldn’t possibly be Hailey.

Could it?

I began opening the drawers one by one, first in the kitchen then in the dining room. Only once I’d finished in the living room did I venture toward the bedroom. Opening the door to their bedroom felt like some sort of violation, but I did it. As I stepped inside, a pair of headlights flooded the street below, then moved on. I walked to the window and watched a dark SUV hook a left at the corner. Aside from that vehicle the street remained empty.

I turned away from the window.

Is this where Hailey sleeps?

The bedroom was compact and cluttered. Clothes strewn everywhere because there was only one small closet. I imagined they entertained in the other rooms and this one remained private. I opened the drawers to the ancient armoire. Lennox’s T-shirts and shorts and bandanas and watches occupied the top, his underwear and socks the second drawer down. I moved some stuff around and discovered a thick wad of British pounds, another of euros, and a third of U.S. currency, all large bills. Fifties and hundreds. In the back of the drawer I found a pistol. A .22 Ruger SR22 Rimfire. A three-and-a-half-inch barrel. Loaded. I slipped it into the pocket of my biker jacket.

Next drawer down was Shauna’s. Her unmentionables. Bras, panties, nighties. I reached toward the rear of the drawer and inadvertently (but unmistakably) touched a sex toy. Immediately pulled my hand free and shut the drawer, shaking off my discomfort.

A few moments later, once my queasiness had passed, I opened the bottom drawer. Shauna’s jeans and sweaters and sweatshirts and belts. I closed the drawer and moved next to the closet.

I reached for the top shelf and pulled down a few shoe boxes. To my dismay, there was nothing in them except shoes. One pair of kicks for Lennox, two pairs of heels for Shauna. The remainder of the closet was loaded with clothes.

I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, only that I’d know it when I found it. But I was fast running out of places to search. A diary, maybe. An address book. A day planner. A yearbook. The things a young woman accumulates over the course of a teenage life.

I went to my haunches and opened the third drawer down in the armoire again. As much as I hated to rummage through it, I thought if there was anything private to find, like maybe love letters or family photos, this was where she would keep them.

I pushed aside something silk then something leather. Sweating, I ran a hand across my forehead and dug past the sex toys.

I found a thick paperback,
Imajica
by Clive Barker. A fantasy novel from the looks of it.

Is this what Hailey reads?

I flipped through the pages and found no highlighted passages, no notes in the margins. I read a few paragraphs, foolishly thinking it would help me understand her mind-set. Maybe even remind me of something in her childhood that would serve as a clue that this was indeed Hailey’s reading material. But when Hailey was six, her favorite book was still
The Grinch Who Stole Christmas
.

“Let’s read it again, Daddy, one more time, just once more.”

I replaced the book and dug deeper still.

And found a smartphone. A Google Nexus 5 made by LG.

I turned it over and found no battery. So I pulled the drawer farther out and continued searching. I finally located the battery but no charger.

Why is she hiding it?

I attached the battery and powered up the device. My mind raced back to a few nights ago at Terry’s when I first received Kati’s e-mail but couldn’t open the attachments because the battery had croaked. This phone turned on and I quickly checked the screen for a lightning bolt or something else to signal low power. But a small vertical image of a battery appeared in the top right-hand corner, half full.