The Last Child (34 page)

They crossed the marbled floor and stepped into the elevator. Yoakum pushed the button and the doors slid together. “Delightful,” he said.

“The receptionist?”

“A peach of a woman.”

Holloway’s office covered most of the entire floor. Hunt saw a conference room, a few secondary offices, but the rest was wide-open space. Holloway stood behind his desk. To the right stood his attorney; to the left, a uniformed security guard, armed. Three walls of plate glass offered a view that included most of downtown, including the police station, which looked dingy and small. From this height the storm was a fast-approaching wall of purple and black.

“Detectives,” Holloway said.

Hunt stepped onto an oriental rug and moved past a conference table that cost more than his car. He stopped in front of the desk. Holloway’s smile was forced, his fingertips white on the desk where they took his weight. “You remember my attorney. This is Bruce.” He indicated the guard.

Hunt stared Bruce down. He was in his forties, tall and black in a crisp blue uniform with a gold shield on his chest and matching patch on one shoulder. The man’s face showed no expression. The weapon was a semiautomatic. “You got a carry permit, Bruce?”

“He does,” Holloway said.

“Can’t he answer for himself?”

“No.”

“He’s a grown man.”

“Not so long as he works for me.”

Hunt raised an eyebrow at Bruce, tilted his head, and shrugged. “We’re investigating a possible link between a criminal matter and one of your employees. We need the names and employment records of all of your security guards, particularly those at the mall.”

“What kind of criminal matter?”

“We’d like the names.”

The lawyer leaned over the desk. “I have advised my client to answer no questions absent a court order to do so.”

Holloway raised his hands to show that he had no choice, and Hunt met the attorney’s gaze. “Is that final?”

“Yes,” the attorney said.

“You’ll advise your client against any interference in our investigation?”

“Of course.”

“He is to alert no one of this visit. The investigation is ongoing.”

Holloway put on his professional smile. “We have nothing to discuss outside of court, Detective Hunt. Not my employees, your investigation, or your uncommonly poor choices. Not Katherine Merrimon or her troubled little bastard of a son.”

Hunt held the gaze, then turned on his heel.

“Oh, but first,” Holloway said. “I guess you should know that Katherine Merrimon has refused to see me further. Changed the locks. Hysterics. The usual.”

Hunt stopped, walked back to the desk. “Is that right?”

“We filed eviction papers this morning. She’ll be on the street in thirty days.”

“She’ll manage,” Hunt said.

“Will she?”

Hunt’s vision constricted until all he saw was Holloway’s oiled smile. He felt a pull on his jacket and realized it was Yoakum. “Come on, Clyde.”

Yoakum turned but Hunt did not budge. He eyed Bruce, then Holloway. “Do all of your guards carry weapons?” he asked.

“I’m not going to answer your questions,” Holloway said. “I thought I made that clear.” Hunt eyed the security guard. “He won’t tell you anything, either.”

Bruce kept his mouth shut, his back straight; but when Holloway stopped looking at him, he laid one finger on the butt of his weapon.

The attorney inclined his head. “Have a good day, Detectives. The receptionist will be happy to validate your parking.”

They crossed the room, shoes soft on the rugs, loud when they hit wood. The elevator doors opened, then closed. “A nice office,” Yoakum said. Hunt remained silent, nails biting into his palms. “Nice view.”

They passed the receptionist, who glared but was ignored. On the sidewalk, the building rose tall and dark above them. Electricity charged the air, and Hunt’s voice seemed to carry much of the same raw energy. “You saw it?”

“I did.”

“His guards carry.”

“Not all of them.”

“But one.”

“Yep.”

“One carries.”

They walked to the car and wind made their pants legs flap and stutter. A uniform, a badge, and a gun. A thirteen-year-old-kid could mistake that person for a cop.

Easy as anything.

Easy as pie.

At the car, Yoakum put his hands on the roof. Hunt was on the other side, the street empty behind him. “I need to say something,” Yoakum said. “And I don’t want you getting bent out of shape about it.”

“What?”

“We don’t need to see the employee files.”

“They might help.”

“But we don’t
need
them.”

Hunt shrugged. “I wanted to see him. I wanted him to know that I’m looking.”

“That’s not enough reason.”

“You’re probably right.”

“Then why come here at all? Why involve Holloway if there’s no need? You knew he wouldn’t answer your questions. He hates you.”

Hunt stared back, eyes shuttered.

“Oh, shit.”

“Get in,” Hunt said.

They slipped into the car; the wind noise fell away. “He’ll call his people,” Yoakum said. “That’s how he is.” Hunt started the car. “He’s probably on the phone right now.”

“Maybe.” Hunt put the car in gear, checked traffic, and pulled away from the curb.

“You set him up,” Yoakum continued. “He’ll call his people and you’ll charge him with obstruction.”

Hunt kept his mouth shut.

He drove for the mall.

The mall was a monolith of concrete and stucco. Slab-sided and bleak, it rose against the dark sky. Glass doors flashed from gray to purple as people filed out, eager to beat the storm home. Hunt threaded through traffic and steered for the back. He rounded the corner and a few hard drops cracked against the windshield. They passed Dumpsters and loading docks and old cars.

They were halfway down the back wall when Hunt slammed on the brakes. His door clanked open and he was out before Yoakum called. “What are you doing?”

But Hunt was already moving. “Ma’am?” Hunt called out to a woman who stood, bent, on the outer edge of the nearest loading dock. “Ma’am?” The woman was in her sixties, attractive. Silver-white hair bobbed at the collar of her expensive dress. Hunt gave her his best smile. “Hi. Detective Hunt.” He flashed the shield. “Sorry to bother you.”

“May I help you?” She was thin-boned and elegant. The diamond at her throat looked to be two carats and real.

A few more drops struck the macadam. “I couldn’t help but notice…” Hunt gestured at what she held in her hand.

“Tuna fish.” She tilted the can, embarrassed. The top was off, tuna gone bad. She gestured at the edge of the dock, where she had just placed a fresh can. “There’s a dear of a cat. I can’t abide seeing it rooting around in the Dumpster.”

“Is the cat tired of tuna?” He tipped his head at the spoiled can.

“I haven’t seen her in a few days.”

“What does the cat look like?” Her puzzlement showed, her hesitance, so Hunt offered his best smile. “If you don’t mind. I’m a cat lover, too.”

She beamed, stepping closer. “Brown tabby with gold eyes and two white paws.” She raised both shoulders, smiled brilliantly. “Just full of life.”

Hunt stepped up onto the loading dock. “May we come through your store?”

“I don’t know—”

“I have to insist.”

The store sold clothing. Hunt and Yoakum pushed through storage, then past the dressing rooms. Women looked up, startled, but Hunt ignored them, making for the escalators. “Clyde. Slow down.”

The crowd was still large, storm notwithstanding. Families, kids—a surge of color and noise.

“Clyde!”

Hunt drove through the crowd, Yoakum trailing in his wake. “This is the guy.”

“Who’s the guy? What are you talking about?”

“It’s the same cat from Johnny’s house. Brown tabby with two white paws. This is our guy.”

“Who is?”

“Whichever guard carries a gun.”

“Johnny’s cop.”

Hunt took the escalator at a run. He emerged into the food court, shouldered past a group of shoppers and made for the door marked SECURITY. It was locked. Hunt pushed the buzzer.

“Security.”

Hunt recognized the voice. “Steve. This is Detective Hunt. Buzz the door.”

“Is there a problem?”

Hunt slammed a palm on cold metal. “Buzz the fucking door.”

The door buzzed and Hunt took the stairs two at a time. Yoakum pounded concrete behind him. They rounded the landing, weapons out. Steve met them at the top of the stairs, door cracked open behind him. “Step aside, Steve.”

“Whoa. Hey.” Steve’s hands went up when he saw the guns.

Into the security office. Fat security guard at the monitors, another standing in front of the broad glass window overlooking the food court. Both were startled, scared. Neither carried a weapon. “Office,” Hunt said, then saw the closed door, the windows with slatted blinds. “You.” He jabbed a finger at the standing guard. “Sit.” The guard scurried to the nearest chair. Hunt motioned to the office door and Yoakum flanked it. Steve looked dazed.

“Anybody in there?” Hunt asked.

“Mr. Meechum? He left.”

“Who is Meechum?”

“The boss man.”

Hunt gestured Steve away from the door, then looked at Yoakum and counted down from three. The door opened easily, and they were through, into the empty office.

“I was saying—” Steve filled the open door. “Mr. Meechum just left.”

“When?”

“Five minutes, maybe.”

“Describe him,” Hunt said.

“I don’t know. Sixty-five. Skinny but strong. Thin hair, busted-up nose. Kind of a dick.”

“Does he carry a sidearm?” Hunt asked. “Is he in uniform?”

“Jeans, usually. A kind of safari shirt. But he wears a pistol on his belt. He’s the only one here that’s allowed to.”

“What kind?”

“Huh?”

“The gun. What caliber?”

“Forty-five, I think.”

Hunt met Yoakum’s eyes, and both understand.
Same as the shell casing found in David Wilson’s car.

“Does he carry cuffs?” Yoakum asked.

“We all do.”

“John.” Hunt gestured to the desk in the office. It was old and scuffed, nothing special. A bank of monitors sat on its surface, tied into the mall’s surveillance system. Three of the monitors were fed by cameras overlooking the food court. Each one showed the same thing: a table of young girls, maybe fourteen, maybe less. The shots were zoomed in. Hunt could see braces, dimples, the ready laughter, the toss of hair. “This is our guy.”

Yoakum leaned in. “Motherfucker.”

“Why did Meechum leave?” Hunt asked, and there was a terrible certainty in him.

Steve did not hesitate. “He got a call from Mr. Holloway. I don’t know what they talked about, but I put the call through myself.”

“When?”

“Just now. Right before you got here.”

“Steve,” Hunt said. “We’re going to need Meechum’s address.”

“I don’t know his address, but you can walk to his house in two minutes.”

“How’s that?” Hunt asked.

“He lives behind the mall. A few weeds, a ditch or two, and you’re at his back door.”

“Show me,” Hunt said.

“Now?”

“Right this minute.”

Steve licked his lips, threw a nervous glance around the room. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Hunt’s hand fell hard on his shoulder. “Really.”

Cold rain drummed against Hunt’s face when he opened the door onto the back lot; it slashed in at an angle, beat itself to mist on the blacktop. Visibility was muted, as if light itself had been sucked from the air. A car rolled past, windshield fogged over, blades throwing water off the glass in wide, crystal arcs. “Where?” Hunt raised his voice.

Steve pointed. The heavy door clanged shut behind him. “There. Between those trees.” Hunt saw the trees, two scrubby cedars sprouting from the edge of a ditch across the lot. “There’s a trail. It’s not long.”

“I need you to show me.”

“Aw, man.” Steve looked up at the rain. “You’re going to get me wet
and
fired.” Nobody laughed.

“Now,” Hunt said.

They dashed across the flooded pavement, slipped between a parked Suburban and a battered Ford with plastic taped over one window. Behind the cars, the ditch was already flooded. Dark water carried fast-food wrappers, plastic bags, and cigarette boxes downcurrent. The trail began at the trees, ran narrow and straight through the tall weeds of a vacant lot. Yoakum’s hand fell on Hunt’s shoulder. “Backup?” He held up his radio.

“We’re not waiting.”

“Good.” Yoakum put the radio in his pocket and racked the slide on his weapon. “I hate waits.”

“Which house?”

Steve leaned left to see between the two scrub cedars. A line of small houses backed up to the field of weeds. Hunt saw narrow patios and busted grills, a few bikes. Steve pointed again. “See the gray house with the red bike on the back patio?”

“Yeah.”

“Third one to the left of that.”

Hunt counted left, saw a low ranch with flaking paint and a dead holly at the corner. No lights. No movement. He pointed it out to Yoakum.

“Does he live alone?” Hunt asked.

“I think so.”

“You stay here.” Hunt checked Yoakum. “You ready?”

“Right as rain.”

They hopped the ditch and slipped into the field, bent at the waist, weapons out and angled low. Weeds grew tall and put long, wet fingers on them as they moved. Thunder crashed. The trail was wet and slick.

They stopped in the last bit of cover before the bare yard that wrapped Meechum’s house. A smell hung in the air, a chemical reek that came from nowhere.

They dashed the last twenty feet, put their backs to the wall beneath the largest window. Water sheeted from blocked gutters. The chemical smell was stronger, something burning. Hunt eased up to the window. The curtains were drawn but gapped open in the middle. It was the living room, a dingy space with old furnishings and low ceilings. The carpet was yellow orange, the walls cheap pine panels. Meechum was as Steve had described him. Wiry and crooked, he bent above his computer, shirt dark with sweat. In the fireplace, computer discs were mounded and aflame. “He’s burning evidence,” Hunt said, dropping down, making for the back door. “You’re on the front door. We go in sixty seconds.”