Reckoning: A Fallen Siren Novel (3 page)

“I’m sorry if that sounded out of line. It wasn’t . . .”

“Of course not!”

“We’re good?”

“Totally!” I nod as if nothing happened. As if I don’t know that he knows. Then we head up to 2B.

Zack raps on the front door with his knuckles. We stand back a few feet so anyone looking out the peephole can see us clearly. I’m prepared to hold up my credentials and explain who we are, but before I have my badge out, the door swings wide-open to reveal a girl of about five. She smiles up at us with a gap-toothed grin.

“Goldie said not to bug her. Not for nothing,” she announces. “So you better go away.” Her small frame is swallowed up by a pink chenille robe at least five times too big for her.

“Who’s Goldie?” Zack asks.

“Not supposed to talk to strangers,” she replies, taking a step back.

Zack produces his badge. “We’re . . . like policemen.”

“
Like
policemen? Where’s your uniform?”

In an effort to save Zack from being bested by the five-year-old, I bend down low so my face is almost even with hers and ask the question he should have asked. “Are your parents here?”

“Nope,” she replies. “Goldie’s watching me.”

“Only
not
,” Zack mutters.

“We’d really like to talk to them about your sister. How much longer do you think Goldie’s going to be?” I ask.

Her face scrunches up in concentration. “She went in to take her medicine one
Dora
and three
SpongeBob
s ago.” One glance back at the television and we’ve lost her. “I like this one,” she says, as she climbs back onto the sofa. “Have you seen it?”

“Sounds like an invitation to me. After you, Agent Monroe.”

Just as Zack steps over the threshold, a door off the living room opens. “Gracie?” a female voice rasps. “Who are you talking to?”

The woman, presumably Goldie, is tall, drug-addict scrawny with a sallow, shrunken face and hair the color and texture of straw. She’s barefoot, dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. Despite the heat, a worn cardigan is
pulled tightly across her chest. She glares at the child. “What have I told you about answering the door?”

Gracie shrinks back.

Zack and I produce our badges and quickly dispense with introductions. Instantaneously, Goldie’s manner shifts. Her tone softens. “Yes. What can I do for you?”

Zack steps forward. I can almost see his nose twitch as his werewolf senses go on alert. If she’s holding drugs in the apartment, he’ll know. He narrows his eyes at the woman. “You are . . . ?”

“The babysitter,” she replies, omitting her name. We let it go, for now.

Gracie has moved so that she is standing by my side. “Where are Mr. and Mrs. Simmons?” I ask, placing a gentle hand on top of the little girl’s head.

“Out.”

“When will they be back?”

The woman looks away, watching Zack as he surveys the apartment. His eyes land on the room she just left. When he starts toward it, Goldie yelps, “You can’t go in there. Actually, you shouldn’t even be in here. This is private property. And . . . and you have to have a warrant. And you don’t.”

“Exigent circumstances,” Zack snaps back. “You have pinpoint pupils and a very bad habit. We have a child here who could be in danger.”

“Please!” she pleads. “Gracie’s fine. Aren’t you, Gracie?” The woman worries at the hem of her secondhand-store sweater, twisting the fabric until it shreds and comes apart in her hands. She barely notices. Her attention is on Zack. She lowers her voice. “Look, I’m trying to stay clean. Honest. I can’t afford to get busted.”

Voices drift into the apartment from the parking lot below.

Goldie begins to babble, edging around Zack and moving toward the door at the back of the room. “Hey, listen—they’re back! How about I just get my purse and get out of here?”

But Zack steps in front of her. “If you go into that bedroom, I’ll want to look in that purse, and if I find something illegal, we’re going to have to arrest you. How about you just get out of here.”

She hesitates only a moment. She may be high, but not so high that she doesn’t recognize she’s being given a choice. She turns, glances at Gracie, then up to me. Without another word to either of us, she’s out the front door.

I take Gracie’s hand and lead her to the couch. “Is she a neighbor?” I ask her.

Gracie nods. “She lives downstairs.”

I hear the fall of Goldie’s footsteps on the stairs as she makes her descent.

“Does she stay with you often?”

“Not so much. She has a boyfriend now.”

An apartment door below us slams shut.

Zack, who had disappeared into the bedroom, returns, holding a purse. He places it on an end table near the couch. “You can give Goldie back her purse the next time you see her,” he says. He moves around the couch so he’s standing next to me and surreptitiously slides something out of his pocket just far enough for me to see what it is. Goldie’s drug kit.

Gracie toys with the robe’s belt.

“That’s a very pretty robe.”

She lifts her shoulders in an elaborate shrug. “This is Julie’s robe. She misappeared. My parents went to find her and bring her home.”

I put my hand over hers. “Gracie, did your parents hear from Julie? Is that why they left?”

Before Gracie can reply, the front door swings open. Gracie jumps up from the couch and runs to greet the man and woman who stop abruptly on the doorstep when they see Zack and me.

“Who are you?” the man asks, more fear than challenge in his tone.

I show him my badge. “Mr. and Mrs. Simmons? I’m Special Agent Monroe of the FBI. This is Agent Armstrong. We’re here about your daughter.”

The woman bends down and gathers Gracie into her arms. “FBI?” She hugs the little girl to her chest and turns wide eyes to us. “You found Julie? Where is she? Is she all right?”

Mr. Simmons places a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Let the agents speak, Angie.” He takes Gracie from his wife’s arms and brings her to the couch. “Want to watch more cartoons?”

Gracie nods enthusiastically. Her father hands her the remote, then motions for us to follow him. Once in the kitchen, we all take seats around a small, round table. Mr. Simmons reaches for his wife’s hand. Her eyes are brimming with tears. They sit quietly without fidgeting, both sad-faced and stoic, the American Gothic in cotton shirts and jeans.

I break the silence. “Mr. and Mrs. Simmons, the FBI has been asked to take over your daughter’s case. I know we’ll be asking questions you’ve already covered with the local police, but it’s important we go over the information again.”

“Sometimes,” Zack interjects, “with time, something
comes to light that may have been forgotten during the first interview.”

They exhibit no suspect reactions. No nervous side glances, no indication that they are upset by the idea of another interview. Their attention is riveted, their expressions hopeful.

Zack continues. “But before we start, there’s something you should know about Goldie. She wasn’t watching your daughter. Gracie answered the door and let us in. Goldie had told her not to bother her. There’s no easy way to say this. She’s a heroin addict and she was using. It’s fortunate you returned when you did. I know the last thing you need right now is another child in jeopardy.”

Shock and anger play across the Simmonses’ faces. It’s clear these folks are at the end of their tether. After recommending they do nothing about Goldie save ensure she’s never relied upon again for babysitting and promising we’ll be making referrals to law enforcement, we start in, alternating questions. When was the last time they saw Julie? How did she seem? Was she upset about anything? How was she doing in school? Did she have a boyfriend?

The answers are clear and straightforward. They saw Julie last when she left to go to the local library. She had some research to do for a school project and some books to return. She seemed fine, although she was running a little late and worried about making it before closing. She didn’t want to incur a fine. She was doing well in school, hoped to win a scholarship to Stanford to study marine biology. No, she didn’t have a boyfriend.

Zack has been jotting answers on a small notepad. He
looks up. “Had anything happened at home that might have upset her?”

That question brings the first physical reaction from the pair. They exchange looks. Mrs. Simmons clears her throat. “One thing.” She looks at her husband and he nods. She clears her throat again. “A few days ago, we found out Julie had gotten a tattoo. What do they call it? A tramp stamp.”

“My Julie’s no tramp. She’s a good girl!” Mr. Simmons assures us. “I don’t know what she was thinking.”

“And you confronted Julie about the tattoo?” I ask.

Mrs. Simmons nods. “She reminded us that she was eighteen and could legally make her own decisions. She was right about that, of course, but it didn’t keep her father and me from being upset. Julie has always been such a levelheaded girl.”

Mr. Simmons chimes back in. “We had words, but by dinnertime we had all calmed down. She even hugged her mother and I before bedtime. All was forgiven.”

Mrs. Simmons nods. “Never go to bed angry—that’s what my mother always said. What’s done is done.”

“Wish my parents were that understanding about my teenage screwups,” Zack interjects.

Mr. Simmons says, “Well, we knew who was
really
to blame for the tattoo.”

I lean toward him. “Who?”

“Rain Johnson.” He spits the name. “She’s trouble, that one. I told the police they should question her. Have you seen that girl? One look at her and you can tell she’s trouble.”

I see Zack’s eyes widen at the mention of Deputy
Director Johnson’s niece, but neither he nor I make any comment. Instead, I ask, “Why do you say that, Mr. Simmons?”

“We never had any problem with Julie until the two of them became friends. Then Julie became very secretive about the things they did together.”

I nod in understanding. “Teenage girls do like to have their privacy.”

“It was more than that. Shortly after they started hanging out, Julie came home past curfew with liquor on her breath. We thought she was studying at the library. Turns out Rain brought her to a party. We grounded her, of course. And we told her she couldn’t see Rain outside of school. If we could have, we’d have barred her from having anything to do with the girl even
at
school, but that would have been impossible.” He shakes his head. “We should have watched her more closely.” His breath catches. “And we never should have let her walk to the library alone.”

Mrs. Simmons reaches out and gives her husband’s forearm a gentle squeeze. “Julie’s walked to the library hundreds of times alone,” she reminds him before turning to us. “It had gotten better. She’s a smart girl. She’s a
good
girl. It was only that once with the party. She wouldn’t run away. She wouldn’t worry us. . . . You
have
to find her.”

My stomach wrenches as the poor woman dissolves into tears. Her husband offers her a clean handkerchief and words of reassurance that seem to comfort her despite being totally meaningless. No matter how many cases I’ve worked, this part is always the hardest.

“We’ll do our very best,” I say.

Zack jots a final note and slips the pad and pen into his jacket pocket. “Think we could see Julie’s room?” he asks.

Mrs. Simmons rises immediately from her chair. “Oh yes. I’ll show you. The police didn’t seem very interested in it. Julie shares the room with her sister but we haven’t touched her things.”

She leads us back through a hallway to a door that opens into a small bedroom. The walls are painted pale yellow with a border of daisies. There are two beds, one made, one still rumpled, two chests of drawers, a small desk, and a bookcase along the wall under a window. Mrs. Simmons points to the bed on the right—the one made up with a bedspread of daisies that matches the wallpaper border. “That’s Julie’s.”

We thank her and ask if we can have a few minutes alone in the room.

“I’ll be in the kitchen. Would you like coffee when you’re finished?”

Zack says yes immediately. I know it’s more to ensure we have privacy than because he needs the caffeine. Mrs. Simmons leaves us. Zack and I pull out pairs of latex gloves and get to work.

The first thing we do is open the laptop that’s sitting on the desk. The screen comes to life, displaying Julie’s San Diego County Library account page. Zack hits the refresh button and the “Log-in expired” message displays. Fortunately, she stored her ID and password; one more click and we can see that fines have begun to accrue.

“She never made it to the library,” says Zack. Then he closes the device and begins to unplug it. “Let’s ask if we
can take it. Billings might find something worthwhile on the hard drive.”

I nod in agreement. Zack begins to rummage through the desk. I turn my attention to the dresser closest to Julie’s bed, opening and closing each drawer. Nothing unusual, just neatly stacked piles of under things, T-shirts, sleepwear. I pass my hand under each drawer. Nothing here, either. I draw a penlight from my bag and get down on my knees and check under the dresser and bed. Nothing again.

Zack has been looking through the closet. One side is lined with Julie’s school uniforms, slacks and jeans, blouses. Shoes are lined up on the bottom. He picks up each shoe, shakes it, puts it back in its place.

I’m just about to turn to Gracie’s dresser when her small hand touches mine. I’d been so intent on what I doing, I hadn’t realized she’d entered the room. “I’m looking for anything that might tell us where Julie is,” I explain, smiling down at Gracie. “Do you mind if I look in your dresser?”

She shakes her head.

With Gracie glued to my side, I do the same check I did before. Her eyes follow my every move. I find nothing. Zack has moved on to the bookcase. It’s the only thing we haven’t searched. I wait. Gracie, now bored with this game, is perched on her bed.

Zack sighs. “Nothing.”

We’ve finished our respective searches and, save the possibility that we might find something of value on the laptop, we’ve come up empty.

“You’re way cold,” Gracie says.

“Cold?” asks Zack.

“Not anywhere near it.”

I sit down alongside her. “Near what?”

The little girl raises a finger to her lips and in a hushed, almost imperceptible whisper says, “Julie’s special hiding place. Would you like to see it?”

Out of the mouths of babes.
“We would.”

She tiptoes to the bedroom door, closes it, and gets down on her hands and knees in front of the furnace register near the foot of her bed. Little fingers pry at the grate covering the vent. In a moment, it falls free. “Look in here,” she says triumphantly. “Julie didn’t think I ever saw her but I did.”

I want to hug the child. Instead I kneel down beside her and pass my hand inside. At first, I don’t feel anything. I reach deeper. My fingertips brush something. I look up at Zack. “Something’s in there, a bag, I think. But I can’t quite reach it.”

Zack doesn’t question, just slips off his suit coat, tossing it on the nearby bed before crouching down next to me. He rolls up his shirtsleeve, then reaches inside. I hear the crinkling of plastic as he grabs hold of the bag.

We climb to our feet. I brush the dust from the knees of my slacks. I’m eager to see the contents. “What is it?”

Zack pulls out what looks to be a checkbook and an envelope.

Gracie scrambles up beside me.

Zack has opened the checkbook. He gives a low whistle and hands it to me. “Fifty-two hundred dollars deposited weekly, two hundred dollars at a time, for the last six months.” He opens the envelope next, and fans four one-hundred dollar bills. “The next deposit?”

The door opens. Mrs. Simmons knocks discreetly on the jam. “Is Gracie bothering you?” Mrs. Simmons asks.

We turn in time to see the little girl dance out. “I helped. Right?”

“She did.” I point to the furnace register. “We found something. Maybe we could go back to the kitchen?”

“And we’d like to take Julie’s laptop with us, so we can examine it more thoroughly,” Zack adds.

“Of course.”

When Gracie is once more ensconced in front of the television, this time with a bowl of Cheerios, the four of us take our places at the kitchen table. I slide the checkbook across the table to Mr. and Mrs. Simmons. “Ever seen this before?”

The astonishment reflected on their openmouthed faces answers more clearly than any words.

“Why was Julie hiding someone’s checkbook?” Mrs. Simmons’ eyes zero in on the balance. She gasps. “Harry, there’s fifty-two hundred dollars here!”

Before Mr. Simmons has a chance to reply, Zack opens the envelope and spreads the bills in front of them. “The account is in Julie’s name. And we found this.”

Mrs. Simmons presses a hand to her mouth. “I don’t understand.”

“Mr. Simmons?” Zack asks.

His lips tremble. “This doesn’t make sense.” He rises from his chair, agitated, pacing. “How could Julie possibly get this much money?”

There are a few obvious answers. None a parent ever wants to consider. “We’ve seen a lot of drug use in this
neighborhood,” Zack says. “A high demand for everything from marijuana to—”

Mrs. Simmons gasps. “Julie dealing drugs? Never! She was against drugs.”

“You did mention she once came home with alcohol on her breath,” I add quietly. “Maybe she was experimenting with other things.”

“No.” The reply is heated, adamant, and immediate. “Not Julie.” Mrs. Simmons and her husband stare at each other, but it’s a look that lasts only a heartbeat.

Zack clears his throat, then asks the next tough one. “Do you know if Julie was sexually active?”

“We’re Catholic, Agent Armstrong,” Mr. Simmons replies, tight-lipped, as if that’s all the answer necessary.

Mrs. Simmons snatches up the passbook. “She was holding the money for someone else,” she blurts. “I know it. And I know who it is. It’s that Johnson girl. Go ask her. Find out what she dragged my Julie into. This is her fault.” Her voice rises to a wail. “Julie has so many friends, we’ve never understood why she gives that girl the time of day. Talk to Rain Johnson. I guarantee you, she’s the reason our Julie is gone.”