Pain Management Page 6

  While she was concentrating, I said, “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure,” she answered, her tone a lot more guarded than the word.

  “I was looking through the one issue I already had. People write you letters, right?”

  “Sure,” she said again. I could hear the barriers dropping into place.

  “You can’t print all of them that you get . . . ?”

  “Well, I don’t get that many.”

  “But more with each issue, isn’t that so?”

  “Yes. But how would you—?”

  “It just makes sense. As the series gets more popular, picks up word-of-mouth, more people get to read it. So there’s a bigger pool of people who might write to you.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Anyway, I was thinking, you couldn’t possibly print all the letters. Besides, there are probably some you wouldn’t want to print.”

  “I don’t understand. You mean the idiots who—”

  “No, I didn’t mean anything negative. I was thinking . . . people might write to you because they’d know you’d understand what they were going through. So maybe they’d want advice or whatever. And you’d keep their names confidential if they asked, wouldn’t you?”

  “That’s right,” she said, her voice as pointed as the pen she was using.

  “I’m trying to help someone,” I said abruptly, sensing she wasn’t going to hang around after she finished signing her books. “And I was hoping maybe you could help me do that.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m a private investigator,” I said. “And I’m looking for a girl who’s run away from her home. Or, at least, people think she has. It’s my job to make sure she’s okay.”

  “What does that have to do with me?”

  “Well, I know she was a big fan of yours.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “She had a whole stack of Cuckoo in her room. And those were the only comics she had.”

  “That doesn’t mean—”

  “Ms. Clell, I’m not saying it means anything. I just thought that maybe, maybe, she wrote to you. If she did, then it might be possible that you could—”

  “I don’t know you,” the woman said. “And I’m not telling you—”

  “I don’t want you to tell me anything,” I said softly. “Her name is Rosebud. Some people call her Rose, others call her Buddy. If she wrote to you, and if she left an address where you could write back, I think you would have done that.”

  “I—”

  “I don’t want the address. All I want is to give you this note,” I told her, handing her an envelope. “It’s unsealed; you can read it for yourself. It explains who I am and why I’m trying to make sure she’s okay. It’s got a phone number she can call. This one right here,” I said, pulling my jacket back to show her the cell phone I carried in a shoulder holster under my left armpit. “I just want to know that she left of her own free will, and that she’s not in any kind of trouble.”

  “I’m not—”

  “You do what you want,” I said. “I’m playing a hunch, that’s all.”

  “A hunch that this girl wrote to me?”

  “A hunch that you’ll do the right thing,” I said.

  She turned to face me. “What makes you think that?” she asked.

  “That one copy of Cuckoo I had,” I told her. “I read it.”

  She didn’t say anything. But she didn’t walk away, either.

  I put my signed and bagged comics into my briefcase, made my eyes a soldering iron between the woman and the truth of what I’d told her, bowed slightly, and moved off.

  “Why do you need all this information about their neighbors?” Gem asked me that night.

  “Too many times, a missing kid, you find the body under the bed of some other kid right close by. Or buried in a backyard, rotting in a shed, chopped up in a shower . . .”

  “But—”

  “Yeah, I know. She’s a little old for that. When a kid’s the perpetrator, you expect the victim to be younger. Smaller and weaker, anyway. Unless there’s a gun involved. But the stealth jobs, it’s usually a little kid that’s targeted.”

  “I was not going to say that,” Gem said, tapping her child-sized foot the way she does when she’s impatient. “There was a note.”

  “A computer note, remember? Not in her handwriting. Anyone could have written it.”

  “Do you believe that is why the parents did not show it to the police?”

  “I don’t know what to believe. This whole thing reeks. Gem, listen to me for a second, okay? What exactly did you tell them about me when you pitched the job?”

  “I told him nothing specific. Just that you were a man accustomed to difficult, dangerous jobs, and that you expected to be paid well to do them.”

  “You tell them I was a—”

  “Not ‘them,’ Burke. I never met anyone but the father.”

  “Okay, where did you meet him?”

  “At the club. The same place where the girl Kitty worked. The one with the boyfriend who—”

  “I remember. He was looking there for his kid?”

  “Not looking for her. Looking for someone who might help him find her. One of the dancers told him she might know somebody. Then she called me. And then I met him.”

  “I should have asked you this before, I’m sorry. Tell me everything you can remember, okay?”

  “Yes. He thought I was Vietnamese. I did not disabuse him. He told me he had been against the war. I did not say anything, but I encouraged him to speak more.”

  “How could you—?”

  “Like this,” she said. She cocked her head slightly, widened her ocean eyes, and oh-so-innocently used the tip of her tongue to part her lips.

  “Ah . . . all right, little girl. What did that get you?”

  “He . . . implied that he had done many things to stop the war. Illegal, even violent things. I did not press him for details. He also told me he studied what he called ‘the arts’ for many years, and that he did not trust himself to confront those who might have lured his daughter away, because he could very easily kill a man with his hands.”

  “ ‘The arts’?”

  “That is what he said. He asked me if I had a relationship with you. I told him that I was a businesswoman; I did not associate with those I worked with. He apologized. He said he wasn’t trying to get nosy, that he knew the value of confidentiality. He said he only asked me about my relationship with you because I was a fascinating woman. That he would like to know me better, but he didn’t want to . . . intrude, I believe he said.”

  “This is after telling you he’s married?”

  “Oh yes. I told him that he, too, was a person I was doing business with, so it was not possible.”

  “He bought that?”

  “I do not think he did. He is like most Americans you meet in places like that—all their images of Asian women are as sex toys. Between the stories servicemen tell of Vietnamese whores and Bangkok bar babies, the ‘Asian Flower’ services that advertise in the magazines, and the strippers they see in clubs, they find all they care to know. He acted as if we were playing an elaborate game but the outcome was not in doubt.”

  “Where did he get the idea I was a mercenary?”

  “Well, in the dictionary sense of the word, I suppose I told him. You are a man for hire; that is what I said. But he thought I was referring to war, I am certain.”

  “Why?”

  “He asked if I was familiar with your résumé—that is the specific word he used. I told him, yes, I was. He asked if you’d ever served in Africa. At first, I felt a little shock—like a warning jolt. I had not told him your name—I still have not—nor did I describe you. But you were in Biafra, and I didn’t see how he could have . . . But he kept talking, and I realized that he was just asking questions out of some movie.”

  “You mean, he was a buff?”

  “A . . . buff?”

  “A . . .
fan, sort of. Cops get them all the time. Some people get turned on by the whole police thing. They collect badges, keep a scanner in their house, volunteer to be auxiliaries. They hang out in cop bars, talk like cops. Some cops’re flattered by all that, specially if the buff is a broad. But the more experienced ones, they’re smart enough to keep them at a distance.

  “There’s mercenary buffs, too. They buy the magazines, collect the paraphernalia, talk the talk . . . usually on the Internet. The more extreme ones just fake it, spend a lot of time in bars dropping names and places. He come across like that?”

  “I . . . am not sure. Every time I did not answer one of his questions about you, he would nod as if I just had. As if we were sharing secrets. It was very strange.”

  “I can’t make it fit,” I told her. “But you’ll get me the stuff on the neighbors?”

  “I am here to serve you,” Gem said, bringing her hands together and bowing.

  When she turned to go, I smacked her bottom hard enough to propel her into the next room. My reward was a very unsubservient giggle.

  “Do you have something?” he said, his voice feathery around the edges.

  “I’m not sure,” I lied. “I may have found a connect to her. I can’t be sure until I go a little deeper. And I need a couple of things to do that.”

  “What?”

  “You take a lunch hour?” I asked him.

  “Yes. But most of the time, it’s with clients. Lunch is when we get to—”

  “Today?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Are you having lunch with clients today?” I cornered him.

  “Well, no.”

  “Okay. Tell me where you want to meet. And what time. We’ll finish this then.”

  There was cellular silence for half a minute. Then he asked me if I knew my way around the waterfront.

  “You said you needed two things,” he greeted me abruptly.

  “Yeah. The first is from your lawyer.”

  “My . . . lawyer?”

  “Sure. You’ve got a lawyer, don’t you?”

  “No. Not really. I mean, I know lawyers, of course. But—”

  “You’ve got a lawyer you’re close with,” I said confidently. “Doesn’t have to be one you use, okay? Just someone who’d do a little favor for you.”

  “How little?”

  “Very little. I don’t have a PI license. That’s no big deal; it’s not against the law to be asking questions on the street. But you know how the fucking cops are,” I said, taking the cues from my conversation with his wife and what Gem had told me about him, “they could roust me for nothing, especially if I start getting closer than they are.”

  He nodded knowingly, but said, “What do you think I could do about that?”

  “Not you. The lawyer. See, you hire the lawyer to represent you in this whole matter of your daughter going missing. Maybe you’re thinking about suing her school for negligence or whatever. It doesn’t matter, that part’s all camouflage. What does matter—okay—is that anyone working for a lawyer as an investigator doesn’t need a PI license. That’s what I want now: a little more cover.”

  “I . . . I can do that. I have a friend who does a lot of criminal-defense work, as a matter of fact. I’ll ask him, how’s that?”

  “Good. And what I also need is some money. Not the actual money,” I said quickly as he opened his mouth to . . . I don’t know what. “But there’s got to be a bounty put out; a reward, understand? There’s people who wouldn’t do anything for love, but they’d move quick enough for money.”

  “I’d thought of that myself. But I didn’t want to attract—”

  “Sure, that’s the whole idea. It would be me offering the money. For information, see? My own idea, not yours. But if someone actually comes up with your daughter, I’d have to pay it off.”

  “How . . . much are we talking about here?”

  “Ten grand should do it, at least for now.”

  “Ten thousand dollars?”

  “Yeah.”

  He pretended to be thinking it over. People with money always see themselves as consumers, and their road maps through life are always marked by brand names. When they rant about corruption, all you’re really hearing is jealousy. They want a friend on the force, an insider contact, a political connection. All that crap about a level playing field always comes from people who’d be happy to stand at the top of the hill if they had the chance. And pour boiling oil down the slope.

  “All right,” he finally said.

  By the time the lawyer agreed to meet with me, I knew a lot more about him than he’d ever know about me. His office was in a big-windowed townhouse. Whitewashed walls lined with posters of Che, Chavez, and other visionaries whose convictions had been stronger than their support. Delta blues growled its way out of giant floor-standing stereo speakers.

  The lawyer was a short, chubby man with thinning blond hair that turned into a ponytail past the collar of his blue-jean sports coat. He sat behind a free-form desk with what looked like a bird’s-eye maple top under fifty coats of clear varnish. I selected a straight chair from a motley collection arranged against one wall, carried it over so I could sit right across from him.

  “Kevin said you were doing something for him?”

  “He tell you what that was?”

  “You’re a cagey man, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Hazard. B. B. Hazard.”

  “Sure,” he said, making it clear he wasn’t buying it.

  “But I’m using different ID for this job,” I said, sliding the driver’s license Gem had gotten made for me across to him.

  “So I’d be hiring Joseph Grange,” he said, reading the plastic laminate of my photo, “DOB 10/19/52. Is that right?”

  “Not ‘hiring,’ “ I told him. “I’m what you’d call an independent contractor.”

  “I see,” he said, chuckling to let me know he was hip. “But you’ll need a . . . document of some kind, to verify that you’re on assignment to this office, yes?”

  “No. I just need whoever answers the phone here to vouch for that. If anyone should ever call.”

  “That isn’t difficult. But . . . Kevin didn’t tell me very much about you. . . .”

  “So?”

  “Well, I was thinking . . . we might know some people in common.”

  “I don’t run dope,” I said, dismissing any chance we had mutual friends.

  “I see my reputation precedes me.”

  “The way I hear it, it comes to weight busts around here, you’re the man.”

  “Lots of people hear that. Where did you hear it?”

  “Inside,” I said. Softly.

  “Not many of my clients there.”

  “Exactly.”

  He laughed. “I like you, Mr. . . . Grange.” He leaned back in his chair, lit a long white cigarette. The scent of cloves wafted over me. I looked at a spot behind the middle of his pale eyebrows. “Kevin tells me you did some work overseas,” he said, blowing a smoke ring at the ceiling.

  “Does he?”

  “We don’t just defend people who have run afoul of the draconian drug laws here. A lot of our work is . . . political, I suppose would be the best way to describe it.”

  “Cool.”

  “Probably not. At least, probably not your politics.”

  “I don’t strike you as a liberal?”

  “No. No, you don’t.”

  “Your receptionist didn’t like me either.”

  “We don’t make judgments here. And we’re very good at what we do. You might want to keep that in mind if you run into any trouble while you’re working for Kevin.”

  “I will. You know what that work is, right?”

  “You’re looking for his daughter.”

  “Yeah. You ever meet her?”

  “Buddy? I’ve known her practically since she was born.”

  “She ever work here?”

  “Why would you ask that?”

  “Well, the kind of office this is,
I figure it’d be like heaven to an idealistic kid. Free Huey one generation, Free Willy the next, right?”

  “I appreciate your sarcasm. But Buddy isn’t that kind of idealist.”

  “What kind is she?”

  “She’s more . . . introspective, I would say.”

  “Okay. Any idea where she went?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “Or why?”

  “That’s an even bigger mystery. She had an . . . I almost said an ‘ideal’ . . . life. I know that’s not possible for a teenager; at least not in their minds. But I never knew a happier, more well-adjusted young woman.”

  “You have kids?” I asked him.

  “No. You?”

  “Four,” I told him, just keeping my skills in practice.

  Being a teenager in America is a high-risk occupation. They’re the most likely to get shot, stabbed, sexually assaulted, beat up, bullied, turned on to chemicals, turned into zombies—and used and abused by the people who “counsel” them after all that.

  And their peer-pressured cynicism makes them the easiest to trick, too.

  It wouldn’t have shocked me if Rosebud had been driven to a remote area and killed by some other girls who didn’t like the way she spoke to one of their boyfriends. Or was snuffed out because some freakish boys wanted the “experience.” Or didn’t survive a gang rape.

  But those kinds of crimes always seem to pop to the surface, like a river-disgorged corpse. Back in the sixties, there was a young guy in Tucson who killed a couple of girls for the fun of it. Buried them out in the desert. If he’d been a nomadic serial killer, the crimes might still be unsolved. But he had to tell some of his groupies about his feats. And when they scoffed, he showed them where the bodies were buried.

  When teenagers commit crimes, they tend to talk about it. Today, they even make videos of it.

  But the wires were quiet.

  Or maybe Rosebud had been in a secret romance with a guy who killed her in a rage when she said she was going to tell his wife.

  It never takes much.

  But if she’d had a boyfriend, the guy had to have been sneaking into her room at night. Because it turned out that Rosebud had led a tightly scripted life . . . and one that made Mother Teresa look like a slacker. Two nights a week at the hospital’s children’s ward, visiting kids with cystic fibrosis. Saturdays, she volunteered at a shelter for battered women. That was when she wasn’t reading books into a tape recorder for the blind, or collecting signatures to abolish the death penalty, or delivering canned goods for a local food bank.