Trapped (Private Justice Book #2): A Novel (4 page)

“Yes.”

He introduced himself, gave her a brief recap of the situation, and concluded with his request. “Since the two girls are best friends, it’s likely Darcy confided in Brianna. Your daughter didn’t offer my client any information, but perhaps you’ll have better luck. While you’re at it, you might want to remind her that contributing to the delinquency of a minor is against the law.”

“Of course, my husband and I will help in any way we can. I’ll talk to Brianna as soon as she gets home from school. You said you were with a company called Phoenix?”

“Yes. You can check out our website.” He gave her the URL. “And if you’d like to verify our involvement, let me give you my client’s number as well as the one for my cell phone.” He slid Laura’s contact sheet in front of him and recited her information. “We’re in the midst of a blizzard here in St. Louis, which means Darcy may still be in town. If so, time is critical.”

“I understand. I’ll call you as soon as I speak with Brianna.”

After ending the conversation with a thank-you, Dev dropped the phone back in its cradle and picked up the slip of paper with the names and work schedules of the two Greyhound ticket agents who’d been on duty Friday night. The manager of the facility had been helpful a few weeks ago with another missing person case, and with the relationship legwork already done, the man had been happy to pass on the information . . . though he hadn’t been willing to divulge home phone numbers.

But that’s what telephone directories were for.

Dev pulled up the white pages on his computer and began his search. There was only one listing for the first agent’s unusual last
name, and within thirty seconds he had the phone number. The second name turned up three possibilities. Not ideal, but better than if the guy’s name had been John Smith.

He started with the first agent. She was pleasant enough, and sympathetic, but had no recollection of anyone fitting Darcy’s description on Friday night, and no memory of a girl with a butterfly tattoo.

One down, one to go.

The first two numbers for the second agent were dead ends, but he hit pay dirt with the third.

“Yes, you’ve got the right guy. And I do remember that little lady.” Dev pegged the speaker at once as a friendly, older gent who was eager to help. Excellent. “I noticed the tattoo when she hoisted her backpack. Sixteen, you say? Could have fooled me. I thought she was twenty-one, twenty-two. She seemed nervous, and I wondered if she might be running away from a boyfriend.”

“No. From a sister who’s very worried about her. It’s the typical teen stuff, plus house rules were too strict.”

“I hear you. I’ve got a grandson who thinks that way too. Up till now, though, he’s stuck it out at home, praise the Lord. It’s a tough world out there, and we see our share of down-and-outers at the station. A lot of them look ripe for trouble—either starting it or falling into it.”

“We’re hoping to find this girl before either happens.” Dev picked up his pen. “Do you happen to remember her destination?”

“Sure do. Chicago. It stuck in my mind, because my cousin lives there and this girl reminded me of his daughter.”

So it wasn’t New York, as Laura had suspected. Who did Darcy know in the Windy City? He jotted that question on his tablet.

“Did you notice what she did after the trip was canceled?”

“Yeah. She hung around for a long time. I kind of kept an eye on her, because she seemed out of place. For a while, she curled up on a seat, like she was trying to catch a few winks. As I was leaving after my shift, I saw her talking to a girl with a guitar. They
were both still there when I came back the next day, but a couple of hours later I did a walk-through to pass out some coffee to the folks who were stranded, and both of them were gone.”

“This would have been what time?”

“Around seven o’clock Saturday night.”

“And the buses haven’t started running again, according to your manager.”

“Nope. Talk is they might be able to get a few through by tomorrow night, but I’m not holding my breath. This storm is a doozy.”

Dev doodled a spiral on the pad of paper. The good news was that Darcy most likely hadn’t left town yet.

The bad news was they had no idea where she’d gone to wait out the storm.

“Can you describe the girl with the guitar?” He doubted that was going to help him much, but it was always better to have too much information than too little.

“I didn’t pay a whole lot of attention to her. Tall, thin, long black hair. Her kind comes through all the time. The drifters, I call them. They have this rootless look. I can’t describe it, but I’ve seen it often enough to recognize it.”

So had Dev.

“Do you have any guesses where the two of them might have gone?” The question was a long shot, and he was preparing to thank the man and hang up even as he asked it.

But the agent surprised him.

“I can’t say for sure, because I didn’t see them leave. The little gal you’re after didn’t take the discount coupon for the hotel we offered, but there are numbers for a homeless shelter or two on our bulletin board. Plus, in bad weather those places sometimes send out teams looking for people who need a warm place to sleep. Mostly the teams go down around Hopeville—that’s an encampment on the Mississippi, down by Laclede’s Landing—or check under the bridges and in the parks, but once in a while they come by the station. I’ve talked to them a few times. Good people, by
and large, doing good work. Living the gospel better than most of us. I did see those two young women talking to them.”

Dev rotated his pen end-to-end. Was it possible Darcy had gone to a shelter? Not on her own, perhaps . . . but if she’d hooked up with a veteran of the streets? Possible.

It was also better than some of the other alternatives she could have chosen.

“That’s very helpful. I’ll look into that possibility. In case you think of anything else, let me give you my number.” He recited it, and the man repeated it back at his request.

“I hope you find that little lady. A girl like her could get into a lot of trouble on the street.”

No kidding.

“I’ll do my best.”

Once he ended the call, Dev wasted no time pulling up the list of homeless shelters in the St. Louis area, concentrating on those that actively recruited in cold weather. If the station agent’s suggestion paid off, this might turn out to be a far easier assignment than he’d expected.

Especially if the bad weather continued and Darcy stayed put.

“I can’t believe how much food people waste.” Star slid into the Burger King booth with the items she’d retrieved from the trash can near the door. “We have a feast.”

As Darcy watched, Star set her bounty on the table: two mini blueberry biscuits, half of a sausage muffin with prominent teeth marks, a cardboard pocket containing three hash brown rounds, a French toast stick, a bite-sized cinnamon roll, and the top half of a croissant.

Darcy shrank back in disgust. No way was she going to eat other people’s garbage.

“I can see you haven’t been on the street long.” Star proceeded to cut off the tooth-marked end of the muffin with a plastic knife.
“Once you get hungry enough, you’ll lose your delicate sensibilities.”

“I had a doughnut at the shelter.”

Star gave a derisive snort. “You think that food’s any better? Most of the stuff at those places is donated ’cause it’s out-of-date or going bad. Trust me—this is a lot fresher.” She gestured toward her impromptu buffet with one hand and popped a hash brown round in her mouth with the other.

Fresher, maybe, but far less sanitary.

She hoped.

Chowing down on another hash brown, Star returned to the topic Darcy had raised before her new friend’s scavenging expedition. “This Mark guy is right about the security check. I’ve stayed in enough of those places to find out how they work. If he passed it, he’s probably safe. But he’s taking a big chance. I don’t think the volunteers are supposed to get involved with shelter customers.”

“They aren’t. He kind of implied it was against the rules and asked me not to say anything to anyone.” The aroma of the sausage was setting off a rumble in her stomach, and she eased away to remove the temptation. The sandwich she’d had last night had been light on meat and heavy on bread, and the hard doughnut this morning hadn’t filled the hole in her stomach. She might have to break down and spend a couple of bucks on a burger.

Star pushed a blueberry biscuit toward her. “Never been touched.”

“No thanks.” She wasn’t going to eat food from a trash can.

Shrugging, Star picked it up and took a bite. “Suit yourself. There’s always more where this came from if you change your mind. Now back to Mark. Let’s see the card he gave you.”

Darcy dug it out of her purse and handed it to the other girl.

After wiping her hands on a paper napkin, Star picked it up. “Looks legit. We could always call directory assistance and see if the number’s for real. Then we could call and make sure this really is his extension.”

“We don’t have a phone.”

“I bet there’s one at the quick shop we passed on our way here. Do you have any change?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Let me finish my food and we’ll see if he checks out.” She folded the top of the croissant in half and took a big bite.

“What if he does?”

Star licked her fingers. “I say we go for it. If he’d just asked you, I’d be worried. There are a lot of perverts out there, and you can’t be too careful—even with guys who seem on the up-and-up.” A shadow crossed her eyes, and Darcy had a feeling her new friend was speaking from experience. “But if he’s willing to have me tag along, I doubt he’s up to no good—especially if he really does work at this daycare place. And we already know he’s a regular volunteer at the shelter, which is a plus. Those places might not be too picky about their clients, but they screen their workers pretty thoroughly. I talked to him quite a bit too, and he seemed okay. The typical do-gooder type.”

She finished off her eclectic meal in a few more bites, downed it with water from the discarded cup she’d rinsed out in the ladies’ room, and wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Let’s roll.”

As Star slid from the booth, Darcy scooted to the edge of her seat and stood too. Outside the windows, the snow continued to fall, covering the world with a pristine cloak of white that hid the garbage in the gutters and masked the decay of the rundown buildings in this seedy part of town. But the sordid reality remained underneath.

Things would be better in Chicago, though.

They had to be.

Head bent against the wind, bare fingers tucked deep in the pockets of her coat, Darcy followed Star into the storm and down the deserted street. No one else had braved the onslaught, either on foot or in vehicle. It felt as if they were alone in the world.

But that was nothing new. She’d felt like this ever since her dad died, even when surrounded by people and activity. And it had been
worse at Laura’s. They had zilch in common, and her half sister’s quiet, predictable life was boring, boring, boring.

Life with Mom, on the other hand, had been one grand adventure.

If only she hadn’t died.

Tears blurred her vision as she trudged along. She didn’t belong anywhere anymore. Mom was gone. Dad was gone. Laura would be happy to return to her placid, teen-free existence.

That was why Chicago was such a smart idea. A fresh start without a bunch of stupid rules would give her just the boost she needed.

However, with those plans delayed, she needed to focus on conserving her money and waiting out this storm.

But if Mark Hamilton checked out and Star gave the thumbs-up, she might be doing it in a place that was a whole lot safer and more comfortable than a homeless shelter.

A
rms folded tight against her chest, Laura watched the relentless snow batter the window. The last remnants of light had faded long ago, leaving gloom in their wake.

Where could Darcy be?

Was she warm and safe . . . or cold and at risk?

Had she taken any chances that had put her in danger?

Apparently James Devlin hadn’t yet found the answer to any of those questions. In the eight hours that had passed since her visit to the Phoenix offices, he’d called only once—to pass on the surprising news that Darcy was headed to Chicago, not New York. As far as she knew, her half sister had no contacts there, but at his request she’d searched Darcy’s room again, looking for anything remotely tied to that city. All to no avail. If there were more clues to be found, they’d eluded her.

So unless her PI had discovered some new information since his call, she wasn’t much closer to finding Darcy than she’d been Friday night.

She turned away from the gathering darkness, rubbing her arms to generate some warmth. She needed to eat, hungry or not. The small container of yogurt she’d downed at noon to quiet the protests of her stomach wasn’t going to hold her through the evening.

Making her way toward the kitchen of her small bungalow, she switched on every lamp she passed, hoping the light would dispel the shadows and brighten her outlook.

She only got half her wish. The light vanquished only the shadows in the room.

With a sigh, she inventoried the refrigerator. She could nuke the leftover Chinese takeout from last night, but would her unsettled stomach accept such a heavy meal? Iffy. Best to go with a safer option.

As she opened the cabinet and started to pull out a can of chicken noodle soup from a shelf above her head, the phone on the counter beside her gave a sudden, sharp trill. She jerked, losing her grip on the soup. Before she could grab it, the can pitched over the edge of the shelf, ricocheted off her chin, and plummeted to the floor.

Laura ignored both the rolling can and the throbbing pain along her jawline as she grabbed for the phone.

Please let it be James Devlin with good news! Or better yet, let it be Darcy, saying she’s had a change of heart.

That plea echoing in her mind, she skimmed the digital display. The number wasn’t familiar, but the name was.

Devlin.

Her pulse took a leap—as did her spirits.

She put the phone to her ear. “Any news?” Her words came out in a breathless, hopeful rush.

“Some. Did Brianna’s mother call you?”

“Yes. Early this afternoon. She wanted to confirm I’d hired you and promised to talk to her daughter as soon as she got home from school. I never heard back from her.”

“I did. Brianna balked at her questions, so she waited for her husband to get home and they double-teamed it. I got the impression they threatened to ground her until she graduated if she didn’t talk, but whatever they did, it worked. She gave them the name of the girl Darcy planned to stay with in Chicago. It’s someone Brianna met at summer camp two years ago and has kept in touch with through texting and email. Rachel Matthews.”

The name rang no bells.

But it was a great lead.

Laura groped for the edge of the table and sank into a chair. “Knowing where she’s headed is a huge step forward.”

“True—but I’d prefer to find her before she leaves . . . and before Brianna somehow tips her off that you’ve discovered her destination.”

“I agree.”

“I also called Rachel’s number and left a message. She hasn’t gotten back to me yet, but I’ll keep trying if I don’t hear from her.”

Laura gently probed her aching jaw. “What do you suggest in the meantime?”

“I’ve done some legwork today—figuratively speaking, given the weather.”

She listened as he filled her in, suppressing a shudder at his theory that Darcy and the girl she’d met might have gone to a homeless shelter to wait out the storm. It made sense, given her limited funds, but she wouldn’t wish that on any sixteen-year-old, no matter how grown-up and street savvy they thought they were.

“Only one downtown winter emergency shelter sent teams to Gateway Station on Friday. I spoke with the director, who reviewed their check-in records for the past two nights. Darcy’s name wasn’t on the list.”

As Dev concluded his recap, Laura’s spirits nose-dived. “So it was a dead end.”

“Not if she used a fake name.”

“Didn’t I read somewhere that people have to show IDs to get a bed at a shelter?”

“That’s the usual procedure, but temporary overflow emergency facilities might be looser. I’ll scope out the place. If Darcy’s not there, I’ll ask around, see if anyone remembers seeing a girl who fits her description. Even though the director wouldn’t violate the privacy of volunteers by giving me their names, he did offer to let me hang around at the shelter and talk to the people on duty. That could be fruitful.”

“You’re going down there tonight?” Laura stared out the window.
The snow hadn’t abated, and according to news reports traffic remained at a standstill throughout the metropolitan area.

“That’s my plan. I’ve got sturdy boots, an Explorer with four-wheel drive, and the roads to myself. It’ll be a piece of cake.”

Would it? Laura stretched out her jeans-clad leg and toed the wayward can of soup out from under the counter. Yeah, probably. James Devlin seemed capable of taking on any challenge, including a megastorm. His confident, decisive manner had no doubt served him well in his ATF days.

Handy guy to have around in this situation too.

“Would it help if I came along?”

As the words left her mouth, Laura froze. Where on earth had that come from? Desperation, perhaps. While battling a blizzard held zero appeal, it was preferable to pacing through her quiet-as-a-tomb house with only worry for company. This way she’d be participating in a productive effort—even if it would tax her coping skills to the limit.

The silence that greeted her offer, however, suggested Dev wasn’t keen on the notion. Most likely he figured she’d get in the way—as well she might.

Time to regroup.

“Sorry. Bad suggestion, I guess. I don’t want to cramp your style.” She tried to lighten her tone so he wouldn’t think she was offended.

“No. It’s not that. I was just mulling over your offer. It’s not a bad idea. People are often more inclined to open up to a woman—especially a concerned sister. But are you sure you’re up for it? Homeless shelters aren’t the most . . . refined places.”

Laura bent and picked up the soup can, weighing it in her hand as she debated how much to reveal. “I’ve been exposed to worse environments.”

“Okay.” His cautious inflection was infused with skepticism.

He wasn’t buying her reassurance—and it wasn’t hard to figure out why. He’d read her contact sheet, noted her profession, and
stereotyped her as a quiet, bookish, stick-in-the-mud who led a sheltered life and whose knowledge of the world came vicariously through the tools of her trade.

So not true.

Still, this stranger didn’t need to know that.

Let it go, Laura. No need to open up that can of worms.

Yet even as the admonition sounded in her mind, her mouth opened. “My mother and I once lived in a tenement we shared with rats. The neighbors on our left were drug dealers and the woman on the right—let’s just say she had a lot of male visitors who never stayed long. The halls stank of pot and urine, and I never went out alone. That was my life for a year when I was twelve, after my mom blew through my dad’s life insurance money.”

She set the can carefully on the table and pried her fingers loose, flexing them to restore circulation as she relaxed her too-taut tone. “However, my story had a happy ending. Mom got her act together, landed a decent job, and we left the rats behind—both the human and rodent varieties. Trust me—I can handle a homeless shelter.”

After a moment of silence, Devlin cleared his throat. “I guess you can.” A rustle came over the line, as if he was consulting a sheet of paper. “You live in Manchester, right?”

“Yes.”

“I’m close—Valley Park. But with the weather, give me thirty minutes.”

“I’ll be ready.”

The line went dead.

For several seconds, Laura kept the phone pressed to her ear. Then, brow furrowed, she slowly settled it back in its holder.

Why in the world had she told James Devlin about that terrible year in her life? She’d never, ever shared that sordid chapter of her history with anyone, let alone a man who was little more than a stranger.

Flummoxed, she stood and opened the can of soup, dumped the contents in a bowl, and slid it into the microwave, moving on
autopilot. How had he managed to infiltrate the wall she’d built around those memories?

Retrieving a spoon from the utensil drawer, she inhaled the comforting aroma of the soup as she pondered that question. It wasn’t his good looks, even if he did have killer eyes and a deadly dimple that would reduce most women to putty. Rick had been handsome too, and she’d never shared her past with him despite their seven-month dating relationship.

The microwave pinged, and she withdrew the soup. Cradling the bowl in her hands, she settled at the table, wisps of steam tickling her nose. As she backed off to let the broth cool a few degrees, she came to the only possible conclusion.

It was all about character. Bottom line, there was an honorable quality about James Devlin that inspired trust—a trait she’d never fully picked up in Rick. Call it women’s intuition, but she had a feeling the PI she’d hired was the kind of man you could count on when the chips were down. A man who stuck to his principles. Who didn’t seek fights but never backed away from them if the cause was just.

In other words, the knight-on-a-white-horse type, straight from the pages of the fairy tales she’d devoured as a child.

Her mouth twitched as she picked up her spoon. Now there was a fanciful notion—one she suspected James Devlin would find amusing on the off chance she ever decided to share it with him.

She dipped her spoon into the soup, lifted it, and blew on the liquid before taking a very cautious sip. The last thing she needed was a burned lip.

And given how easily the handsome Phoenix PI had circumvented her defenses, caution might be a sound strategy with him too.

Because she didn’t need a burned heart again, either.

Feeling relaxed for the first time since her flight from Laura’s house, Darcy set her half-empty mug of hot chocolate on the coffee
table, leaned back on the couch, and smiled at their host. “That was a great dinner.”

Mark took a chair across from her. “It’s hard to ruin a meal cooked in a Crock-Pot.”

“My mom did—regularly. Then again, it’s not easy to cook when you’re smashed 24/7.” Star took a sip of the wine Mark had offered her and slung a jeans-clad leg over the arm of the director’s chair she’d claimed.

Darcy snuggled deeper into the soft upholstery, hugging a pillow close to her chest. She’d learned a lot about her new friend’s life over the past few days, but far more tonight after the wine loosened her tongue. And none of it was pretty. With an apathetic drunk for a mother and an abusive meth addict for a father, it was no wonder she’d hit the road at fifteen. If she’d been forced to do some questionable things to survive, at least she wasn’t getting attacked with broken beer bottles by her father anymore.

As she pictured the long jagged scar on Star’s arm, hidden now under the sleeve of her turtleneck sweater but displayed for both her and Mark earlier as they’d cleaned up after dinner, Darcy tightened her grip on the pillow. In light of Star’s story, she almost felt guilty for running away. Compared to the aspiring musician’s home life, hers was—and had always been—cushy, despite the frequent clashes with her father and Laura. Maybe she ought to rethink her plan to go to Chicago after all.

“A penny for them.”

At Mark’s comment, she picked up her cocoa again. No way was she ready to admit she was having second thoughts. “Not worth it. Star, why don’t you sing us that new song you were working on at the station the first night?”

“It’s not done yet.” Star swung her leg back and forth and inspected her wineglass, lifting the golden liquid to the light.

“That’s okay. Play whatever you have.”

With a shrug, she shifted around in her chair. “I guess I could. The refrain’s about there, and it might be helpful to get some audience
reaction.” She finished off the wine, set the stemmed goblet on the side table, and picked up the guitar that was never far from her side. After a few strums, she launched into a haunting melody, singing in a pop soprano that displayed an impressive range.

As Darcy listened to the words about a young woman searching for love but living a nomadic existence of one-night stands, she wondered how much of the angst and yearning in the music was showmanship and how much reflected actual experience.

Probably more of the latter than she’d want to know.

The hot cocoa soothed her as she sipped, and her eyelids grew heavy. It had been great to take a real shower, and it would be wonderful to sleep in a bed instead of on a cot. Maybe tomorrow Mark would let her do some laundry too, while she debated her future. Listening to Star’s stories of life on the road had taken some of the luster off her Chicago adventure.