Try Darkness (8 page)
“Maybe,” Brosia said. “But that doesn’t help me much.”
“Can you run prints?” I said.
“That’ll be done,” he said. “But they’ll have to be in our system for a match. Sometimes people like this just fall through the cracks.” He handed me his card.
I gave him one of mine. “We have to find the girl,” I said.
“We have somebody on that,” he said.
I looked at the body. “How was she killed?”
“I’m not going to get into that,” Brosia said. “I would like you all to come down and make a statement for me. Anything will help.”
“I want to know what you’re going to do to find the girl,” I said.
“I told you. We’re doing what we can. Of course.”
“I know what that means,” I said. “She’s not going to be high priority—”
Sister Mary touched my arm. “He said he would do whatever he could,” she told me. “I think you should take him at his word.”
HEADING DOWN THE
stairs, I said to the nun, “You don’t need to interrupt me again.”
“You needed it,” she said. “You were going to say something you’d regret.”
“I can handle my own commentary.”
“Just trying to help.”
“Well don’t.”
“Listen.” She stopped in front of me. “I care about finding her as much as you do.”
Father Bob, farther along, said, “Come on, now. We can settle this outside.”
When we got back out to the sidewalk I saw Disco Freddy. He was twirling in the street, right off the curb. The old guy who’d applauded for him was there, too. He looked at me with recognition.
I spoke out loud to everyone who could hear me. “Have any of you seen the little girl who lived in 414? Any idea where she could be?”
A few heads shook.
The old guy came to me and said, “I asked about her first thing. Nobody knows, man. She just up and disappeared.”
“You see anybody around here who didn’t look like he belonged lately?” I asked.
“Only like ever’ day. This place is looser’n goose grease. My name’s Oscar. I’ll help if I can.”
A guy with a gray ponytail and jeans and a large gut pushing a Western-style shirt said, “She was a quiet kid. I remember that.”
Disco Freddy shouted, “NumbuddynomakenomubbamindDebbieReynolds!”
“Shut up, Disco!” Oscar shouted.
“Disco Freddy!”
“He thinks he’s doin’ a show at Candyland,” Oscar said.
“Why’d you say Candyland?” I said.
“That’s just the room downstairs. There’s vending machines. Cokes and candy. We call it Candyland sometimes. Disco thinks it’s a theater. Like Broadway.”
I BLEW BY
the uniform with a wave. He didn’t try to stop me. Only this time I went for the stairwell and down to the basement.
It was a rec room of sorts. A few chairs and tables. Some cards spread on one of the tables. An old, warped Ping-Pong table in the middle. And against the far wall, two vending machines. One had candy and snacks. The other was courtesy of the Coca-Cola Company.
One corner of the room was taken up with a chaos of old furniture—upturned tables, cushions, benches—half of it covered with an old paint-spattered tarp. It was like someone had once decided to clean the place up then forgot about it halfway through.
It was also a place where a kid could make a fort or hiding place.
“Kylie?” I said. “Are you in here?”
No answer. I didn’t get too close to the clutter. “It’s me, Ty, the lawyer you and your mom met. Remember? Where you got a hot chocolate? And you gave me a secret map?”
Silence.
“I’m all alone. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you. I was trying to help your mom, and I’ll help you. That’s what I do. Are you in there? You want me to help you get out?”
A long pause. Then I heard a movement. A creaking under the tarp. Then the tarp itself moved.
“It’s okay, Kylie. It’s going to be okay.”
A foot peeked out of the enclosure, in a little tennis shoe. Followed by the other, then Kylie’s tiny form backing out and into the open. She was covered with dirt and dust. She had her little pink backpack on one shoulder. She rubbed her eyes. “I’m hungry,” she said.
“Then we’ll get something to eat,” I said. “Come on.” I went over and picked her up. She let me, leaning her head on my shoulder.
“My mommy’s dead,” she whispered.
“Yes,” I said. “I know.”
“Don’t let him get me.”
“No. I won’t.”
Then she started to cry. Softly at first. Then it grew. Her body shook and I was the only thing she had to hold on to, so she held. I stroked her hair and let her cry it out. Her warm arms squeezed my neck. As they did, a rippling heat expanded outward from inside me. It made me nervous, like I’d been hand selected for an elite team I wasn’t qualified for, some Delta Force dropping into a jungle battle zone. Then nerves melted into resolve. I’d never been a father. But now, filled with something primal, I knew what it must be like to have a daughter who comes to you in the night, frightened of darkness or dream, and you are the one she seeks, and you know you will do anything to protect her. Anything.
I knew this without pause or analysis or Dr. Phil.
I just knew.
Then I carried her upstairs.
I ALMOST MADE
it outside without getting stopped. My aim was to gather Father Bob and Sister Mary and get out of there. I could call Brosia later.
But the uniform saw me on the sidewalk and ordered me to stop. A crowd quickly gathered around, the denizens of the Lindbrook, even Disco Freddy, and started making noises toward Kylie. Some cheering.
She buried her head deeper in my chest.
“Back off!” I shouted.
Father Bob stepped in with a little more patience and gently pushed the people back.
A moment later Brosia appeared. “Let’s get her out of here,” he said.
“Where?” I said.
“My office. Central. It’s a couple blocks away.”
“I want to get her something to eat first. Calm her down.”
“I want her at the station, now.”
“In a little while,” I said.
“She’s a witness.”
“She’s also my client. I’ll get her to you soon enough.”
THE FOUR OF
us—Father Bob, Sister Mary, Kylie, and I—convened at a corner diner. Sister Mary took Kylie into the bathroom and cleaned her up. She came back tired and a little cranky. Kylie, that is.
She wanted pancakes. I ordered her pancakes.
“We’ll go talk to the policeman in a little while,” I said to her. “I’ll be with you the whole time, okay?”
Kylie nodded.
“And then we’ll go to a place where all three of us live, and you can stay there with us.”
I gave a quick look to Father Bob and Sister Mary. Both had
Wait till Sister Hildegarde hears about this
looks on their faces.
Kylie said, “Will the man find me?”
“No,” I said. “We won’t let him find you. The police will catch him.”
That was going to be the thing now, keeping Kylie safe and calm until we could decide what to do.
After we ate I sent Sister Mary back to St. Monica’s with Father Bob. She said she’d get a room ready for Kylie.
Then I drove Kylie to Central Division on Sixth Street, parking in front.
“Is this where the police live?” Kylie asked.
“Some of them,” I said.
She held my hand as we walked in.
DETECTIVE BROSIA WAS
accommodating. He didn’t fight me about being with Kylie during the interview.
She sat on my lap in the interview room. Had her arms around my neck and held on to me. I put her little pink backpack on the table.
“A couple of things,” I said, “before you start.”
“Go,” Brosia said.
“If she gets tired, we end the interview.”
“Fine.”
“You need to know some things. I was at the Lindbrook last Friday. The victim was a tenant and they weren’t going to let her stay. It’s illegal, and I called them on it. They put me in touch with their lawyer. His name’s Al Bradshaw, works for Gunther, McDonough & Longyear. Now she’s dead.”
“You saying there’s a connection?”
“I’m saying that’s what happened. You can follow up.”
“Thanks. Anything else?”
I asked Kylie if she needed anything to drink. She said she would like some orange juice, please.
Detective Brosia brought her a Styrofoam cup with orange juice in it, and a cup of coffee for me. He sat at the table.
“Kylie,” he said, “can I ask you some questions now?”
She nodded tentatively.
“You don’t have to be scared. Your friend Mr. Buchanan is here. Okay?”
Nodded again.
“I’m a policeman and I have to try to find the person who did the terrible thing to your mommy, okay?”
Nod.
“Can you help me?”
Nod.
“Can I look in your backpack?”
Nod.
Brosia took the backpack, opened it. Poured out the contents. Some crayons and paper fell out. “Is that all?” he asked.
Kylie nodded once more.
Brosia put the things back in the pack and said, “All right. Were you in your room when your mommy got . . . hurt?”
Nod.
“Where were you?”
Kylie thought a moment, then whispered in my ear, “The closet.”
“She says she was in the closet,” I said.
“Can she talk to me?”
Kylie shook her head.
“I think I’d better translate,” I said.
Brosia frowned. “Now that’s a new one on me. Doesn’t that present a hearsay problem?”
“Not for investigatory purposes,” I said. “It’ll be all right. I’ll swear to everything on the statement.”
Brosia shrugged. “We’ll go with it, then. So Kylie, you were in the closet?”
Kylie nodded.
“Why were you in the closet?”
She whispered to me. I said, “She plays and sleeps in the closet. It’s like her room.”
“Did you see what happened to your mommy?”
Kylie whispered that she saw a man. I told Detective Brosia. It continued that way, with me as the go-between.
“How did you see the man?”
“There’s a crack in the door.”
“You mean the closet door has a crack down the middle because it folds, right?”
Kylie nodded.
“Was it dark in the room?”
“Mommy had lights on.”
“So you could see what was going on?”
“Some.”
“Do you know how this man got inside the room? Did he walk in or knock on the door?”
“Mommy let him in.”
“So your mommy knew him?”
She shrugged.
“Had you seen this man before?”
She shook her head.
“Can you describe this man?”
Kylie looked at me, confused.
“Can you tell me what he looked like?” Brosia said.
At this point Kylie drew some strength and faced Brosia. She answered him directly now. “I only saw his back. He had black clothes and a rainbow hat.”
“A rainbow hat?” Brosia said. “Can you tell me anything else about the hat?”
Kylie shrugged. “Rainbowy.”
“Lots of colors on it?”
Kylie nodded.
“Anything else?”
She shook her head. Brosia seemed frustrated.
Then Kylie said, “I can draw it.”
Brosia scratched his chin. “That’s not a bad idea. Do you want to use your crayons, Kylie?”
“I’m tired,” Kylie said.
“You’re doing great,” I said. “A real champ.”
KYLIE TOOK HER
crayons and drew a pretty good rendition of a man in a hat. She drew green and red and yellow rings on the hat.
“It looks like one of those Rasta hats,” Brosia said. “I think we have one in the evidence locker. Hold on another minute.”
He left again.
Kylie sighed.
“Almost done,” I said. “Then we’ll go to a place where you can see the mountains and the sky for miles.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“Is it a hiding place?”
“Sort of,” I said. “It’s not a place a lot of people know about. It’s where I’m staying right now.”
“I want to stay with you.”
“Then that’s how it’ll be.”
Brosia came back in holding a knit Rasta hat with the distinctive color rings.
“That’s it!” Kylie said, surprised and a little scared. “Is the man here?”
“No,” Brosia said softly. “This isn’t the same hat. But this is like the one the man in the room wore?”
“Uh-huh.”
“That’s pretty distinctive,” I said. “Somebody at the hotel should have noticed that. Somebody sitting in the lobby, or the desk clerk.”
Brosia said, “What color skin did the man have?”
Kylie thought about it. “I stopped looking.”
“I think she’s about through,” I said.
“Just a few more questions.” Brosia leaned forward. “Did you see the man hurt your mommy?”
Kylie shook her head.
“Could you hear what was happening? Was there an argument or a fight?”
“There was talking but I couldn’t hear.”
“Then what happened?”
“There wasn’t talking for a long time. I went to sleep.”
“How long did you sleep?”
Kylie shrugged.
“When you woke up, what did you do?”
“I came out and saw Mommy on the bed. I said her name. But she didn’t wake up. I ran to Mr. Hoover.”
“Mr. Hoover who lives across from you,” Brosia said.
“Uh-huh. And he came in and he said Mommy was dead and he went to get the police.”
“What did you do?”
“I got scared and I went to Candyland and I hid.”
“Candyland?”
“It’s the lower-floor room,” I said. “With a candy machine. She had a little hideout there. That’s where I found her.”
“How’d you know she’d be there?” Brosia said.
The question was a little too pointed for my taste. “I figured it out,” I said.
“We’ll have to talk about that,” he said. Then to Kylie, “Did your mommy have many men friends who came to visit?”
She shook her head.
“Did your mommy and you ever talk about men coming to see her?”
Kylie shook her head.
“How long were you living in the hotel?”
“I don’t know.” She had started whispering the answers for me to repeat again.
“Was it longer than a year?”
