Read San Francisco Night Online
Authors: Stephen Leather
San Francisco Night (11 page)
The moment that Father Benedict mentioned the sacrifice of a white boy and a black girl Nightingale flashed back to the conversation he’d had with Inspector Chen. Brett Michaels and Sharonda Parker, both ten years old and both abducted on the same day. He went back outside and bought a copy of the Chronicle and flicked through it. He found an article on the top of page five, complete with photographs of the two children. The police hadn’t made much progress and although the story covered both abductions, the police weren’t prepared to say that the cases were connected. There were two bylines on the page four story, Karl Woods and Sonja Price. Nightingale went back to his SUV and entered the Chronicle’s address – 901 Mission Street – into the SatNav.
The building was on the corner of Mission and Fifth, a three story building with a clock tower in the middle. Nightingale found a parking space a short walk away and headed into reception. A young blonde girl with a headset flashed him a plastic smile and Nightingale asked if he could speak to Sonja Price, figuring that he’d probably have more luck with a female reporter. She wasn’t at her desk so Nightingale asked for Karl Woods. The receptionist nodded at a phone on the counter and Nightingale picked it up. “Yeah, this is Karl Woods,” said a brusque voice.
Nightingale introduced himself as a freelance journalist who was writing a feature on child abductions and asked if Woods could spare a few minutes.
“Are you a smoker?” asked Woods.
“Do you not talk to smokers?” asked Nightingale, confused.
Woods laughed. “No, that’s not it. I’m due a cigarette break now so I can talk to you on the sidewalk, if you want.”
“Perfect,” said Nightingale. “I’m happy to provide the smokes.”
“What brand?”
“Marlboro.”
“Red or gold?”
“Red.”
Woods laughed again. “My day is getting better and better. Give me five minutes.”
The journalist had a big voice but he turned out to be a short ginger-haired man who Nightingale figured weighed under a hundred and fifty pounds. Woods was around five foot six, twenty-five or so with a faceful of freckles and black plastic glasses.
“Jack?” said Woods, offering his hand.
“Thanks for this,” said Nightingale, shaking the reporter’s hand.
“No problem,” said Woods as he took Nightingale outside. There were two young men standing in the smoking area and they both nodded at Woods. Nightingale offered the journalist a Marlboro and took one himself. They lit their own and blew smoke contentedly.
“So what do you need, Jack?” asked Woods.
“I’m putting together a feature on abducted children, basically showing how the Brit cops handle things differently to the Americans.”
“Which paper?”
“I’m freelance,” said Nightingale. “But the Guardian is interested and the Independent has taken my stuff before. So I saw you were working on the Brett Michaels and Sharonda Parker case.”
Woods pulled a face. “Strictly speaking, we don’t know if it’s a case. The cops certainly aren’t connecting them.”
“They went missing on the same day?”
“Sure, but other than that there’s no connection. White, middle-class boy, black working-class girl.”
“But you covered both kids in the same stories.”
“Because it’s easier that way. And the fact they vanished on the same day sort of connects them even if the situations are different. Sonja Prince did the interviews, I wrote up most of it.”
“Okay, so tell me about the boy.”
“His father’s a VP at Bay City Bank and has been making plenty of noise. He’s on the phone to me every day, pushing me to keep the story in the papers. And I gather he’s been hounding the cops. But it’s a tough story to keep writing because there’s no new angle, no sightings, no clues, nothing. It’s a strange one too, Brett normally waited for his father to collect him after baseball, but this time it looked like he left early. One of the other kids in the team said he told him he had to go with his aunt, but he must have got that wrong, Brett doesn’t have an aunt.”
“So no-one saw him leave?” asked Nightingale.
“No, the kids generally change after a game,” said Woods. “But Brett never went back to the changing room. All his street clothes were still there.”
“And the police have no leads?” asked Nightingale.
“None they’ve cared to share with the press. I kind of think they were expecting a ransom demand, but nothing I’ve heard about.”
“And what can you tell me about the girl?’ asked Nightingale.
“Same deal, nobody saw anything, nobody knows anything, no sightings. The father’s long gone, the mother’s holding down two jobs. They live out in the Tenderloin, and to be honest if the story wasn’t linked to the Michaels disappearance, Sharonda wouldn’t make the paper.” He shrugged. “That’s the way of the world, I guess.”
“So do you have any theories?” asked Nightingale.
Woods shrugged. “Probably the same as anyone else. Nothing good. Both cases are still open and the cops say they’re actively seeking leads. Which means they got nothing and every day that passes lengthens the odds of things turning out well.”
“Karl, did you ever hear any reports of organized groups snatching children?”
Wood’s shrugged again.
“Pedos? I haven’t, but it’s as good a theory as any, I guess.”
“What about other groups?” asked Nightingale. “Satanists maybe?”
“Devil worshipers? You don’t believe in that shit?”
“Doesn’t matter what I believe, it’s what they believe that counts.”
“No such thing,” said Woods. “You get killers saying that the devil told them to do it but it’s bullshit.” His eyes narrowed. “Is that an angle for you?”
“It’s possible, it depends on what I turn up.”
“Does it happen in the UK?’
“No evidence of it. But then if they were good at it, there wouldn’t be, would there? A lot of kids disappear, and most are found eventually. Most turn up alive and well, and sometimes it ends badly. But there are some cases where nothing ever turns up. No body, no nothing. Who knows what happened in those cases?”
“We get that, sure,” said Woods. “But if these two kids don’t turn up one way or another, devil worshipers would be right down at the bottom of my list of suspects.” He took a final drag on his cigarette and then stubbed it out in a metal receptacle built into the side of the building. “And with that final thought, I’ve got to get back to work.”
“Can you do me a favor, Karl? Can you let me have their addresses? I’d like to go around and talk to the parents.”
“No problem. I think they want as much publicity as they can.” He pulled a notebook from his pocket, scribbled down two addresses and handed them over. “Quid pro quo, yeah? If you get anything new, give me a call?”
“Deal,’ said Nightingale. “Have you got a card?”
On the way to Sharonda Parker’s home, Nightingale stopped off at a camera shop to buy a Nikon
The Parker apartment was on the fourth floor. A young black woman opened the door, but kept the chain on.
“Yes?”
“Mrs. Parker?” said Nightingale. “I’m Karl Woods from the San Francisco Chronicle.”
He handed over the card that Woods had given him. The woman gave it a cursory glance and handed it back. The chain stayed on.
“Why you here?”
“Our paper is going to run a fresh appeal for sightings of Sharonda. And I wondered if I could ask you some questions.”
“Where you from?”
“England. But I work for the Chronicle.”
She squinted at the camera and slowly nodded. “Okay,’ she said, and took off the chain.
“Sure,” she said. “Come in. Anything that’ll help.”
She unchained the door and Nightingale walked in. The apartment was a world away from the Mitchell mansion. One room with an aging green sofa and two mismatched chairs, a tiny kitchen, bathroom and two bedrooms. It hadn’t been decorated in a long time, but was clean and tidy. Mrs. Parker was around her late twenties, dressed in cheap well-worn clothes. She’d obviously been doing a lot of crying.
“I’m so sorry about what’s happened,” said Nightingale, which was pretty much the only truthful thing he’d said since she opened the door.
“What you want from me?”
Nightingale held up the camera. “I want to take a photograph of Sharonda’s bedroom. Is that okay?”
“Why?”
“It would show people what’s waiting for her. Make them think about her. Remind them that she is still missing.”
Tears welled up in her eyes. “Sure yes, anything you want, I don’t care, anything that helps. I just need her home.”
Nightingale put his arm round her. She sobbed against his chest for a while, then straightened up.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“There’s nothing to apologize for.”
“Take the photos...it’s through there,” she said, pointing at a door.
Nightingale walked in to the bedroom. There was just the one single bed, so he assumed the baby slept in its mother’s room. The furniture was cheap, the paint peeling, but again it was spotlessly clean. Sharonda’s clothes hung from a string stretched across an alcove, there was a teddy bear on the bed and a couple of dolls. A big orange cat was curled up asleep on the pillow. The girl had her own little dressing table and mirror. Nightingale turned to check that she hadn’t followed him into the room and then slipped a pink hairbrush into his raincoat pocket. He took half a dozen photos, then walked back into the living room, where Mrs. Parker was sitting at a small dining table. She looked up. “You done?”
Nightingale nodded. “I do have a question for you. When is Sharonda’s birthday?”
“Her birthday?”
“Yes. When is it?”
“Why do you want to know when her birthday is?” She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.
“We can plan a big piece on her birthday. Again, it’s a way of reminding people, of keeping Sharonda’s name out there so that people keep looking for her.”
She dabbed at her eyes again. “It’s in two months,” she said. “The twenty-first of June. She’ll be eleven. I bought her a tablet.”
“A tablet?”
“One of those computer things, like an iPad. It’s a cheap one, from China. She wants an iPad but I can’t afford one.” Tears ran down her cheeks. “I’m a really bad mother.”
“No, you’re not,” said Nightingale.
She nodded frantically. “I am,” she said. “I’m the worst mother ever.”
Nightingale was torn between hugging the woman or rushing out of the room. He hesitated for a few seconds and then took her in his arms and allowed her to sob into his chest as he stroked the back of her head.
According to the SatNav, the house where Brett Michaels lived was just eight miles and nineteen minutes away from Sharonda Parker’s tenement block, but it might as well have been on the other side of the planet. The roads and sidewalks were immaculate, the houses were pristine and surrounded by landscaped gardens that must have cost a small fortune to maintain. Most of the lawns were dotted with small but very visible signs that said the homes were under the protection of armed security response teams. The Michaels house wasn’t quite in the same league as Kent Speckman’s mansion, but it wasn’t far off. There was no wall and no CCTV cameras so Nightingale was able to park in the road and walk up the driveway. There was a treble garage to the right of the house and a white Range Rover parked outside.
Nightingale rang the bell and an overweight Hispanic woman wearing an apron opened the door. Nightingale gave her Karl Wood’s business card and asked to speak to Mr. or Mrs. Michaels. The woman nodded blankly and closed the door. Several minutes passed and Nightingale was just about to ring the bell again when the door opened and the maid gestured for him to come inside. The hallway was massive with a double staircase that wound around a chandelier that was the size of a small car.
Mrs. Michaels was sitting in a room the size of a basketball court filled with white furniture. She was sitting on a white leather sofa that must have been twenty feet long. She was tall, stick thin with unnaturally blonde hair. She was wearing a UCLA sweatshirt and tracksuit bottoms and her eyes were red from crying. Like Mrs. Parker, she didn’t appear to have slept much. She was holding Karl Wood’s business card in both hands. She didn’t get up. “How can I help you, Mr. Wood?”
“I’d like a photograph of Brett’s bedroom, if you don’t mind,” said Nightingale. “The picture editor wants to run it as a way of getting people thinking about Brett and where he might be.”
Mrs. Michaels nodded. “I suppose that’s okay,” she said.
“Is your husband here?”
She shook her head. “He has a thing at work. He had to be there.”
“Have you heard from the police?”
“I haven’t. But my husband is in touch with them regularly.” She looked at the business card and frowned. “So are you a reporter or a photographer?”
“We tend to do a bit of everything these days,” said Nightingale.
There was bottle of wine on the table in front of her, half empty or half full depending on your point of view. And a glass that was very nearly empty. She refilled it with a trembling hand. Nightingale couldn’t imagine what it must be like to have a child taken from you and he hoped that it wasn’t something he’d ever have to experience first hand.
“I’m so sorry about what’s happened,” said Nightingale.
She smiled thinly. “Thank you.”
“I hope he turns up, I really do.”
She nodded and he knew how hollow his words sounded.
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
“Maria can show you to Brett’s room,” she said, saving him further embarrassment. The maid led him upstairs and down a corridor to a room that was at least ten times larger than his hotel room, with a door that led to a palatial bathroom. There were popstar and sports posters on the walls and a large screen TV connected to a PlayStation and a
Nightingale put his camera bag on the bed while he took a few photographs. “Maria, do you know when Brett’s birthday is?” he asked.
The maid nodded. “In two month’s time,” she said. “Mrs. Michaels was planning a big party.”
“Which day exactly, do you know?”
“Of course, it’s June 21st,” she said.
