Vampire for Hire (20 page)

 
      
 
Guilt,
I suddenly thought. Something is eating away at him. Tearing him apart. And just as I thought that, a brief image appeared in my thoughts, so horrific and heartbreaking that I nearly broke down myself. It was snapshot of him holding a burned body. A tiny burned body.

 
      
 
It was his son, and now I understood the waves of guilt.

 
      
 
The image was of a car accident. Like with the McDonald’s manager, I saw a burned-out vehicle, but this time I received another sensory hit: The smell of alcohol, along with the smell of burned flesh.

 
      
 
Sweet Jesus.

 
      
 
His palpable waves of guilt nearly overwhelmed me in my current, fragile state, and I was beginning to see the downside of this ESP business.

 
      
 
I need to learn how to shut this shit off,
I thought.

 
      
 
Spinoza was friendly enough and had smiled and shaken my hand, but he easily lapsed into a dark silence that made it nearly impossible to warm up to the man.

 
      
 
Sitting next to him was another investigator—yet another specialist in finding the missing. His name was Aaron King and he was older than the hills. He was also damn good-looking and frustratingly familiar-looking.

 
      
 
And the psychic hit I got from him was an unusual one:
Mr. Aaron King had a secret. A big secret.

 
      
 
He caught me looking at him and
and
gave me a beautiful smile, complete with twinkling eyes. I found my heart beating a little faster.

 
      
 
Aaron King and Spinoza (I never did catch his first name) passed on eating and instead sipped from oversized drinks. Men and their oversized drinks. Sheesh. They examined the photos while I recounted the events of the last few days, beginning with the first phone call from
Maddie
, my discussion with Chad, my conversation with Detective
Hanner
,
Maddie’s
second call, the meth lab and dead body, the Happy Meal, and the video surveillance.

 
      
 
“All this from a wrong number,” said Aaron. God, I loved the lilt to his voice. A hint of an accent. Melodious. A beautiful and agonizingly familiar voice.

 
      
 
“Probably not a wrong number,” said Spinoza. The man spoke as if it were a great effort. As if it took all his energy and strength to form the words. If ever there was a man who needed a hug, it was him.

 
      
 
Knighthorse
nodded. “Your number was programmed into the phone. No way a kid that young finds you in the phone book.”

 
      
 
“Could be our guy’s phone,” said Spinoza.

 
      
 
Knighthorse
looked at me. “Any reason why a six foot five black thug would have your number programmed in his phone?”

 
      
 
“Maybe he’s looking for a good time?” I said.

 
      
 
Knighthorse
grinned, and so did Spinoza. I think. Aaron King chuckled lightly.

 
      
 
“Maybe it wasn’t his phone,” offered Spinoza.

 
      
 
“Her mother’s?” said King.

 
      
 
I nodded. “Maybe her mother gave it to her before her death.”

 
      
 
Spinoza said, “Maybe she suspected something bad might happen. If so, she wanted her daughter to have it in case of an emergency.”

 
      
 
“And she pre-programmed it with Samantha’s info?” said Aaron King. “Why not the police?”

 
      
 
“Or maybe she took it off her mother’s dead body,” said
Knighthorse
, and the expression that briefly crossed his face was one of profound pain.
Knighthorse
, I realized, knew something about dead mothers. His own dead mother.

 
      
 
Jesus, we’re all a mess,
I thought.

 
      
 
“And you don’t recognize the woman?” King asked me.

 
      
 
“No. And her name doesn’t show up in any of my case files.”

 
      
 
“Did you check all your case files?” asked King.

 
      
 
“All my files are in a database.”

 
      
 
Knighthorse
and King whistled. “Maybe I should get me one of those,” said the old guy, winking at me in such a way that my stomach literally did a somersault.

 
      
 
Spinoza plowed forward. “Still, that doesn’t mean the mother, what’s her name—”

 
      
 
“Lauren,” I said.

 
      
 
“That doesn’t mean Lauren didn’t look you up prior to being killed. Maybe she knew something was wrong.”

 
      
 
“Or something was about to go wrong,” said King.

 
      
 
“Right,” said
Knighthorse
. “She looks you up in the Yellow Pages, punches you in her phone for a later call.”

 
      
 
“But never makes the call,” I said.

 
      
 
“Right.”

 
      
 
“Maybe the mother tried calling you, Samantha,” said Spinoza. “Perhaps you were her last call.”

 
      
 
“Except you were too damn busy with your database to pick up,” said King. He winked at me, and I elbowed the old guy in the ribs. He chuckled again.

 
      
 
“If so,” said
Knighthorse
, “then perhaps you were the last call she ever made. And if the call came through as blocked, which can be done automatically, then you would have no record of the call.”

 
      
 
“It’s a theory,” I said.

 
      
 
Knighthorse
said, “And then all the daughter had to do was hit redial.”

 
      
 
“And she would call me,” I said.

 
      
 
“Bingo.”

 
      
 
We let that theory digest for a few seconds. Then Spinoza sat down his oversized drink. No doubt his normal-sized bladder was bursting at the seams. “So let’s hit it,” he said.

 
      
 
And we did. But first he went to the bathroom.

 
      
 
Chapter Thirty-one

 
      
 
Private investigators seem to hold a certain allure for many people. I get that. TV has certainly made the work appear glamorous; after all, there’s something exciting about being a lone wolf (no pun intended), working when you want, living on the edge of society, and catching the bad guys. The adventure. The excitement. The mystery.

 
      
 
Sorry folks, but fifty perfect of P.I. work is following cheating spouses and doing background checks. And even then, the background work is getting sparser and sparser, thanks to so many new internet sites that do the work for us.

 
      
 
But, yeah, every now and then we do get a juicy case. And it can be fun. Especially when you do help those in need.

 
      
 
More often than not, P.I. work takes great patience, especially when you’re watching a subject at home for days on end. Or when you’re beating down doors looking for leads.

 
      
 
Like we were doing now.

 
      
 
Canvassing a targeted area will eventually turn up something. With enough people pounding doors and stopping people on the streets, someone, somewhere will recognize the man in the picture.

 
      
 
Canvassing is painstaking and frustrating at best, hopeless and infuriating at worst. And just when you think you couldn’t knock on another door, or stop another stranger on the street, someone starts talking, and that someone will tell you exactly what you need to know.

 
      
 
Ideally.

 
      
 
So the four of us hit the pavement and, using a street map, centered our efforts on four different quadrants surrounding the meth house. I had the northeast section, which included a lot of rundown apartments, rundown homes, and a handful of motels. The guys didn’t like me running off on my own but I reminded them that I was a highly trained federal agent. They didn’t like it, and made me promise to keep my cell phone and pepper spray handy. I didn’t have any pepper spray, but the old man Aaron, gave me his.

 
      
 
I checked with Danny once, confirmed that Anthony was still sleeping, checked with my sister, confirmed Tammy was safe and sound at their home, and then hit the pavement.

 
      
 
And hit it hard.

 
      
 
* * *

 
      
 
We did this for four hours.

 
      
 
I questioned dozens and dozens, if not hundreds of people. I sensed that many of the young men recognized the man in the picture. None of them were talking. I would make them talk if I had to. I remembered where all of them lived.