“Her friend, Holly, came to me. They were both at the party last night, and now one of ‘em is missing.”
“Christ.” Abby sighs. “How long’s she been gone?”
“At least twelve hours.”
“Is she a minor?”
“She’s eighteen, but just barely.”
“That’s not long enough for a missing person’s report.”
“I’m aware of that.”
I relay the highlights of Holly’s story. How a woman named Steph told McKenzie there was a man who wanted to pay her to go to his house, and the driver who supposedly brought her there. I intentionally gloss over the parts about my personal interest in Holly, as well as her current whereabouts.
“Maybe McKenzie got her money and took off,” Abby says.
“According to her friend, that doesn’t seem likely. They do everything together.” I pull into a parking space by the entrance to the grocery store. “I’m thinking King’s assistant might know who the driver works for.”
“King fired him,” she says. “He’s not gonna want to talk to either of us again.”
“Shit.” I turn off the engine. Losing our CI, the direct link to Russell King’s inner circle, could set our investigation back months.
“Yeah, shit. I still can’t believe you went behind my back like that.”
“Aren’t you always telling me not to drag you into my shit? Plausible deniability is why you still have a job.”
“Yeah, well, I’d prefer to have a job and a partner. Have you considered the possibility that this allegedly missing girl might have fuck all to do with our case?”
“That’d be a big fucking coincidence.”
“Would it?” she asks. “I mean, why haven’t any of the other witnesses mentioned a bald man?”
“Maybe all the girls who see him end up dead,” I say. “Look, maybe you’re right, and this guy’s a nobody. But Holly and her boss have both seen him. He has to work for someone, and I’m willing to risk hitting a dead end if there’s even a slight chance he could tie the reverend to a missing girl.”
“Cal, do you ever wonder if the reason you keep hitting dead ends is because you make a habit of hurling yourself in directions the evidence doesn’t actually point to?”
I lean back against the headrest and close my eyes. Abby and I can, and have, argued about this case for days on end. If I want her help, I’m gonna have to pivot to something specific.
“I just need the last name of the recruiter,” I say.
“Cal...”
“It’s got nothing to do with the reverend—” Unless I’m right, in which case, it has everything to do with the reverend. “—I just want to find out if she knows where McKenzie went last night.”
“If Harris catches you working this case, you’ll never get your badge back.”
“I’m not working a case. I’m just helping a friend. Maybe the two will overlap, maybe they won’t. Right now, my only concern is bringing this girl home.”
Abby goes quiet. There’s no way she buys my hands-off approach, but she knows I’m a bloodhound. Once I catch a whiff of something, I’m on the trail.
“I’ll see if my CI is willing to talk to me one more time,” she says. “But if Holly really wants to find her friend, she should come down to the station first-thing tomorrow morning and file a report.”
“I’ll pass along the message.” I end the call with a long and heavy sigh. I can’t say I’m too keen on the idea of bringing Holly to the station.
On one hand, her account of last night’s party is solid, admissible evidence that we can use. But a possible leak in the department complicates things. Considering what happened to the girl who lived long enough to get to the hospital, I’m not convinced she’d be any safer in police custody.
I wander the supermarket aisles, trying to think of things a girl who’s been living on the edge might like to eat. I should’ve asked her before I left the apartment, but she was sleeping so peacefully.
All I saw in the motel was a minifridge and a microwave. I’m willing to bet it’s been a while since she had a nice homecooked meal. I toss a loaf of bread into my cart, plus a gallon of milk and some slices of cheese. I pick up a package of chicken thighs, and make sure to grab lots of fruit. Apples, bananas, a big bag of grapes. And plenty of veggies, too.
I’m on my way to the self-checkout when I stop short in front of a display of stuffed animals. A fluffy white kitten with big blue eyes stares up at me from a pile of fuzz.
Would Holly like this? I pick up the kitten, turning it over in my hand. A girl her age would probably be more interested in an iTunes gift card, but something in my gut tells me to put the kitten in my cart.