The Prettiest One: A Thriller (18 page)

Caitlin took another item from the box. It was a small notepad, the kind that could fit in the palm of a hand.

“Was that in the box?” he asked.

Caitlin nodded. “Sure.”

Bix frowned. “I know it’s been a while since I put that stuff in there, and I know I forgot about the cigarettes, but I definitely don’t remember that notepad.”

Caitlin flipped open the cover. From where he sat, Bix could see handwriting on the top page.

“What’s it say?” he asked.

“It’s a list,” Caitlin said.

“That looks like your handwriting,” Josh pointed out.

“It is.”

“What’s on the list?” Bix asked.

“Names,” Caitlin said. “Well, sort of, I guess.” She stared down at the notepad in silence for a moment, then said, “The first one is Bogeyman.”

“Bogeyman?” Josh said. “Seriously? Is that the Bogeyman from your nightmares, do you think?”

“No, Josh,” Bix said. “It’s the real Bogeyman.”

Josh ignored that. “Caitlin?”

Caitlin shook her head. “I have no idea. I still have nightmares about him all the time, but I have no idea why I would write a list with him on it.”

“What are the other names?” Bix asked.

Caitlin read, “One-Eyed Jack and Bob.”

“Bob?” Bix said. “Doesn’t really seem to fit with Bogeyman and One-Eyed Jack, does it?”

“There’s also something that looks like an address,” Caitlin said. “1108 Greendale Boulevard. Next to it, in parentheses, it says, ‘Ten to four.’ ”

“Sounds like a business address, maybe,” Josh said. “And those are the hours it’s open. You know where that is, Bix?”

Bix thought for a moment. “I know the general area. It’s near the brewery on the other side of the city. Not a great part of town. No idea what business might be at that address, though.”

“It’s something we need to check out,” Caitlin said. “And last but not least, there’s this,” she said as she took a stack of paper money from the box.

“Whoa,” Bix said. “That definitely wasn’t there when I put that box in the closet. How much is it?”

“Twelve hundred dollars.”

Bix frowned. “Why were you hiding that from me?”

“Guess you don’t know her as well as you think,” Josh said, taking evident pleasure from that fact.

Without taking his eyes off Caitlin and the money, Bix gave Josh the finger.

“This is weird,” Caitlin said, looking down at the things she had removed from the box. “Bix says he put this box in the closet seven months ago and this notepad and the money weren’t in it. That means that sometime since then, I wrote this list and hid it in the box, along with twelve hundred bucks. Why would I do that?”

Bix couldn’t help but feel that she had hidden the list specifically from him. And the money, too.

“Well, we have a few clues now,” Josh said, “for whatever they’re worth. Make sure you bring that notepad with us today.”

“And the money,” Bix said. “We may need it for . . . whatever.” As Caitlin stuffed the bills into a front pocket, he added, “Let’s get going.”

The restaurant where Caitlin worked was still their first stop. Hopefully, someone there would tell them something helpful. Bix wasn’t optimistic. In his experience, nobody really helped anybody with anything if they could avoid it, especially when doing so required the sharing of information. And sadly, it looked like the three of them were going to need a lot of help.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

HUNNSAKER WAS HUNCHED OVER HER desk with the
Boston Globe
and the
Smithfield Beacon
in front of her, both newspapers open to stories about the warehouse shooting. Apparently, the murder was already old news to the editors of both papers, having occurred as long ago as yesterday morning, because neither of the articles was featured prominently, meriting only a few inches of column space toward the back of the local news sections. But they did print the sketches of both the victim and the redheaded “person of interest,” as Hunnsaker had requested she be labeled, along with more detailed physical descriptions. Now it was time to see how many calls from nutjobs and cranks they would have to sift through to find out if anyone out there actually had useful information. Someone must have seen the victim. Someone must know the redhead. The question was, would they see the sketches? And even if they did, would they call the cops?

Martin Donnello sat at the counter and picked at his omelet. It was a little late for breakfast but still a bit early for lunch, and he wasn’t all that hungry anyway. But he knew he should eat something. He hadn’t slept much since everything went wrong at the warehouse the night before last. Guns came out, Donnello’s partner seemed to have gotten himself shot, and then that damn redhead led them on a chase before somehow getting away. Donnello had spent most of his time since then looking for her. He wished he’d gotten a better look at her. He wasn’t even sure he’d know her if he saw her again.

His eggs had grown cold, so he dropped his fork and picked up a piece of sausage and took a bite. He was so lost in thought about the shit that went down the other night that he almost didn’t hear the old guys talking behind him. He wasn’t sure what it was that had snagged his attention, but when he tuned in to the old guys’ conversation, he grew interested.

“‘Person of interest,’ they call her,” one of the old men said.

“I could get interested in her person,” the other said, causing them both to chuckle.

“What the hell was she doing in an abandoned warehouse in the middle of the night?”

“Probably a hooker.”

“I’d pay for some of that.”

“You’d
have
to pay. Nobody’s gonna give a dried-up old sonofabitch like you anything for free.”

Donnello turned to his left to look behind him. He always turned to his left. No point turning to his right, seeing as he’d lost that eye in a fight a few years ago. Who was he kidding? It’s hard to call anything a fight that consists of four guys holding you down while a fifth pops your eye out with a spoon like a chef with a melon baller. He’d grown accustomed to turning to the left all the time, just like he’d gotten used to his eye patch. When he turned, he saw two old men sitting across from each other in a booth, both of them looking over Donnello’s shoulder. He turned back around and saw the bulky sixteen-inch television on a corner shelf above the cash register. The news was on and coverage of a story was under way. On the screen was what appeared to be a police sketch of a young woman. Evidently, it had been there for a little while already, because Donnello saw it for only three or four seconds before the sketch disappeared and the program cut to a reporter standing in front of a warehouse.

Donnello knew the warehouse, of course.

And he’d seen the young woman before . . . at the warehouse two nights ago. He hadn’t gotten a good look at her then. Things got confusing when the bullets were flying. Plus, the warehouse was dark. When she started running, it was hard to keep up. They had searched for a while but they’d ultimately lost her. Donnello had been searching ever since. And now maybe he’d finally find her. Because he recognized her, and not just from the warehouse. No, he’d seen her before. He wasn’t yet sure where, but he definitely had.

He would remember eventually, he was certain of it. And then he’d track her down. And when he did, he’d do what he had to do.

Caitlin sat in the front seat, her eyes scanning the sights as they drove through the city. They had passed through the West End, where they’d had dinner last night, and were heading through the heart of Smithfield on Barstow Boulevard, one of the city’s main drags. From the driver’s seat, Bix pointed out various landmarks and gave points of reference for them while Caitlin struggled to call forth a single memory.

“That corner is where you gave that homeless guy with the dog half your bagel, then went back and bought another one for him to split with his mutt.”

Caitlin didn’t remember that.

“And in front of that 7-Eleven is where we saw that idiot kid try to jump his skateboard onto the railing there. Spectacular wipeout. But he didn’t break any bones so we were free to laugh our asses off.” Bix chuckled.

“I have no memory of that.”

“Okay, see that frozen-yogurt shop?”

“Yeah.”

“Right there some guy tried to snatch your purse. You hung on, and when he tried to yank you down, you yanked back and he fell.”

“Wow,” Josh said from the backseat. “What happened?”

“I kicked him in the ass as he ran away . . . without Katie’s purse.”

“It’s Caitlin,” Josh reminded him.

“Give me a break, will you?” Bix said. “She was Katie to me for seven months. She’s only been Caitlin for two days. So cut me some slack if I slip up.”

Caitlin watched the sights continue to drift past the car. Every so often, Bix pointed out something and tried to remind her of the memory attached to it. It was as if she were seeing everything for the first time. Fifteen minutes later, she realized that Bix had been pointing out fewer and fewer sites. In fact, he hadn’t mentioned one in several minutes. The part of town they were now in was seedier, she noticed, far more run-down than where they’d been just minutes before. Graffiti. Broken windows. The occasional homeless person in a doorway huddled under a ragged blanket. People leaned against buildings or stood on street corners with bad intentions almost visibly rolling off them in waves. Because the pub where Caitlin used to work didn’t open until lunchtime, they had decided to visit the address on the list Caitlin had found in the box in her closet, the list she had kept hidden away. According to what she had written, the place would be open from ten to four. Looking around now, she questioned the wisdom of coming here.

“I don’t expect you to recognize anything around here,” Bix said. Caitlin didn’t, and she was glad about that for a change. “I can’t imagine you spent much time in this part of town,” he added. Caitlin sure hoped she hadn’t.

“There it is,” Bix said. “Across the street.”

She looked at the plain, single-story brick building. There were bars on the windows, but she had seen bars on a lot of the windows on this street.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” Josh asked.

“It’s the address on Katie’s mysterious list.”

“What kind of place is it?” Caitlin asked.

“I can just make out the sign next to the door,” Josh said. “It says . . . the King of Pawns. I think it’s a pawnshop.”

“It doesn’t look open.”

“What time is it?” Bix asked.

“Ten twenty,” Josh said.

“Should be open. On Katie’s list it said ten to four, right?”

“No,” Caitlin said. “I mean, it doesn’t even look like it’s in business any longer. Nothing in the windows.”

“Yeah, it does look closed for good,” Bix agreed. “Only one way to find out.” He opened the door and stepped out of the car. He leaned down, poked his head back in, and said, “As you can see, this isn’t the best part of town. You might be safer if you stayed in the car.”

“I’ll be fine,” Caitlin said.

“I was talking to Josh.”

“You’re an asshole, Bix,” Josh said as he opened his door and stepped onto the sidewalk. Caitlin followed.

Something was different about this area. Caitlin knew it had to be her imagination, but she sensed a palpable tension in the air, like something bad was just waiting—and even hoping—to happen. As she and Josh followed Bix across the street, she became aware of eyes marking their progress. The guys in muscle shirts on the corner down the block. Someone in a window next door to the pawnshop. A couple of rangy teens with cigarettes in their mouths and tattoos covering their arms sitting on the hood of a car across the street. Caitlin wondered if they had some sort of sixth sense that would alert them to the fact that she had twelve hundred dollars in her pocket.

As soon as they reached the King of Pawns, which Caitlin had to admit was a little clever, they confirmed that the shop was out of business. Through the bars, they saw empty shelves and display cases displaying nothing but broken glass. A length of rusty chain wove through the handles of the glass doors, secured in place with a bulky padlock.

“Well,” Bix said, “that answers that.” He frowned. “I can’t imagine why this address would be on your list, Katie, and why you bothered to write down its hours. The place has obviously been closed for years.”