Hold Tight (18 page)

“I’m still going through all his e-mails, phone records, and credit card stuff, but yeah, so far.”

“What else?”

“Well, assuming that the same killer or killers took Reba Cordova and Jane Doe, we have patrolmen checking the spots known for prostitution, seeing if another body gets dumped.”

Loren Muse didn’t think that was going to happen but it was worth looking into. One of the possible scenarios here was that some serial killer, with the willing or unwilling help of a female accomplice, grabbed suburban women, killed them, and wanted them to appear to be prostitutes. They were going through the computers now, seeing if any other victims in nearby cities fit that description. So far, goose egg.

Muse didn’t buy this particular theory anyway. Psychologists and profilers would have a quasi-orgasm at the idea of a serial killer working suburban moms and making them up to be prostitutes. They would pontificate on the obvious mom-whore linkage, but Muse didn’t really buy it. There was one question that didn’t fit with this scenario, a question that had been bugging her from the moment she’d realized that Jane Doe was not a street hooker: Why hadn’t anyone reported Jane Doe missing?

There were two possible reasons she could see. One, nobody knew that she was missing. Jane Doe was on vacation or supposed to be on a business trip or something like that. Or two, someone who knew her had killed her. And that someone didn’t want to report her missing.

“Where is the husband now?”

“Cordova? He’s still with the Livingston cops. They’re going to canvass the neighborhood and see if anyone saw a white van, you know, the usual.”

Muse picked up a pencil. She put the eraser end in her mouth and chewed.

There was a knock on her door. She looked up and saw the soon-to-be-retired Frank Tremont filling her doorway.

Third day in a row with the same brown suit, Muse thought. Impressive.

He looked at her and waited. She didn’t have time for this, but it was probably better to get it over with.

“Clarence, you mind leaving us alone?”

“Yeah, Chief, sure thing.”

Clarence gave Frank Tremont a little nod as he left. Tremont did not return it. When Clarence was out of sight, he shook his head and said, “Did he call you chief?”

“I’m kind of pressed for time, Frank.”

“You got my letter?”

His resignation letter. “I did.”

Silence.

“I have something for you,” Tremont said.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not out until the end of next month,” he said. “So I still need to do work, right?”

“Right.”

“So I got something.”

She leaned back, hoping he would make it a quick.

“I start looking into that white van. The one at both scenes.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t think it was stolen, unless it was out of the area. There is really nothing reported that matches it. So I started searching rent-a-car companies, seeing if anyone rented a van like the one we described.”

“And?”

“There are some, but most I was able to trace down fast and find out they’re legit.”

“So it’s a dead end.”

Frank Tremont smiled. “Mind if I sit down a second?”

She waved at the chair.

“I tried one more thing,” he said. “See, this guy has been pretty clever. Like you said. Setting up the first to look like a hooker. Parking the second vic’s car in a hotel lot. Changing the license plates and all. He doesn’t do it in the typical way. So I started wondering. What would be better and less traceable than stealing or renting a car?”

“I’m listening.”

“Buying a used one online. Have you seen those sites?”

“Not really, no.”

“They sell a zillion cars. I bought one there last year, on autoused.com. You can find real bargains-and since it is person to person, the paperwork is iffy. I mean, we might check dealers, but who is going to track down a car via an online purchase?”

“So?”

“So I called the two major online companies. I asked them to back-date and find me any white Chevy vans sold in this area for the past month. I found six. I called all of them. Four were paid for with checks so we got addresses. Two paid in cash.”

Muse sat back. The pencil eraser was still in her mouth. “Pretty clever. You buy the used car. You pay with cash. You give a phony name if any name at all. You get the title, but you never register it or buy insurance. You steal a license plate from a similar make and you’re on your way.”

“Yep.” Tremont smiled. “Except for one thing.”

“What?”

“The guy who sold them the car-”

“Them?”

“Yep. Man and a woman. He says mid-thirties. I’m going for a full description, but we may have something better. The guy who sold it, Scott Parsons from Kasselton, works in Best Buy. They have a pretty good security system. All digital. So they save everything. He thinks they may have a time-delay film of them. He’s having a tech guy check now. I sent a car to go bring him in, let him look at some mug shots, get the best ID I can.”

“We have a sketch artist he can work with?”

Tremont nodded. “Taken care of.”

It was a legit lead-the best they’d gotten. Muse wasn’t sure what to say.

“What else we got going on?” Tremont asked.

She filled him in on the nothingness of the credit card records, the phone records, the e-mails. Tremont sat back and rested his hands on his paunch.

“When I came in,” Tremont said, “you were chewing hard on that pencil. What were you thinking about?”

“The assumption now is that this might be a serial killer.”

“You’re not buying that,” he said.

“I’m not.”

“Neither am I,” Tremont said. “So let’s review what we got.”

Muse rose and started pacing. “Two victims. So far, that’s it-at least in this area. We have people checking but let’s assume that we don’t find any more. Let’s say this is it. Let’s say it is just Reba Cor- dova-who might be alive for all we know-and Jane Doe.”

Tremont said, “Okay.”

“And let’s take it one step further. Let’s say that there is a reason why these two women were the victims.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know yet, but just follow me here. If there is a reason… forget that. Even if there is no reason and we assume that this is not the work of a serial killer, there has to be a connection between our two victims.”

Tremont nodded, seeing where she was going with this. “And if there’s a connection between them,” he said, “they might very well know each other.”

Muse froze. “Exactly.”

“And if Reba Cordova knew Jane Doe…” Tremont smiled up at her.

“Then Neil Cordova might know Jane Doe too. Call the Livingston Police Department. Tell them to bring Cordova in. Maybe he can identify her for us.”

“On it.”

“Frank?”

He turned back at her.

“Good work,” she said.

“I’m a good cop,” he said.

She didn’t reply to that.

He pointed at her. “You’re a good cop too, Muse. Maybe even a great one. But you’re not a good chief. See, a good chief would have gotten the most out of her good cops. You didn’t. You need to learn how to manage other people.”

Muse shook her head. “Yeah, Frank, that’s it. My managerial skills made you screw up and think Jane Doe was a hooker. My bad.”

He smiled. “I caught this case,” he said.

“And messed it up.”

“I may have gotten it wrong to start, but I’m still here. Doesn’t matter what I think of you. Doesn’t matter what you think of me. All that matters is that we find justice for my victim.”

M O drove them to the Bronx. He parked in front of the address Anthony had given him.

“You’re not going to believe this,” Mo said.

“What?”

“We’re being followed.”

Mike knew better than to turn around and be obvious about it. So he sat and waited.

“Blue four-door Chevy double-parked down at the end of the block. Two guys, both wearing Yankee caps and sunglasses.”

Last night this street had been teeming with people. Now there was practically nobody. Those who were there either slept on a stoop or moved with amazing lethargy, legs congealed together, arms melted against their sides. Mike half expected a patch of tumbleweed to blow through the middle of the street.

“You go in,” Mo said. “I got a friend. I’ll give him the license plate and see what he comes up with.”

Mike nodded. He got out of the car, trying to be subtle about checking out the car. He barely saw it, but he didn’t want to take the chance of looking again. He headed toward the door. There was an industrial-gray metal door with the words CLUB JAGUAR on it. Mike pressed the button. The front door buzzed and he pushed it open.

The walls were done up in a bright yellow usually associated with McDonald’s or the children’s ward at a trying-too-hard hospital. There was a bulletin board on the right blanketed with sign-up sheets for counseling, for music lessons, for book discussion groups, for therapy groups for drug addicts, alcoholics, the physically and mentally abused. Several flyers were looking for someone to share an apartment and you could tear off the phone number at the bottom. Someone was selling a couch for a hundred bucks. Another person was trying to unload guitar amps.

He moved past the board to the front desk. A young woman with a nose ring looked up and said, “Can I help you?”

He had the photograph of Adam in his hand. “Have you seen this boy?” He put the picture down in front of her.

“I’m just the receptionist,” she said.

“Receptionists have eyes. I asked if you’ve seen him.”

“I can’t talk about our clients.”

“I’m not asking you to talk about them. I’m asking you if you’ve seen him.”

Her lips went thin. He could see now that she also had piercings in the vicinity of her mouth. She stayed still and looked up at him. This, he realized, was going nowhere.

“Can I speak to whoever’s in charge?”

“That would be Rosemary.”

“Great. Can I speak to her?”

The well-pierced receptionist picked up a phone. She covered the mouthpiece and mumbled into it. Ten seconds later she smiled at him and said, “Miss McDevitt will see you now. Third door on the right.”

Mike wasn’t sure what he expected, but Rosemary McDevitt was a surprise. She was young, petite and had that sort of raw sensuality that made you think of a puma. She had a purple streak in her dark hair and a tattoo that sneaked up her shoulder and onto her neck. Her top was just a black leather vest, no sleeves. Her arms were toned and she had what looked like leather bands around her biceps.

She stood and smiled and stuck out her hand. “Welcome.”

He shook the hand.

“How can I help you?

“My name is Mike Baye.”

“Hi, Mike.”

“Uh, hi. I’m looking for my son.”

He stood close to her. Mike was five ten and he had a little over half a foot on this woman. Rosemary McDevitt looked at Adam’s photograph. Her expression gave away nothing.

“Do you know him?” Mike asked.

“You know I can’t answer that.”

She tried to hand the picture back to him, but Mike didn’t take it. Aggressive tactics hadn’t gotten him much, so he bit down, took a breath.

“I’m not asking you to betray confidences-”

“Well, yeah, Mike, you are.” She smiled sweetly. “That’s exactly what you’re asking me to do.”

“I’m just trying to find my son. That’s all.”

She spread her arms. “Does this look like a lost and found?”

“He’s missing.”

“This place is a sanctuary, Mike, you know what I’m saying? Kids come here to escape their parents.”

“I’m worried he might be in danger. He went out without telling anyone. He came here last night-”

“Whoa.” She held up a hand to signal for him to stop.

“What?”

“He came here last night. That’s what you said, Mike, right?”

“Right.”

Her eyes narrowed. “How do you know that, Mike?”

The constant use of his name was grating.

“Pardon me?”

“How do you know your son came here?”

“That’s really not important.”

She smiled and stepped back. “Sure it is.”

He needed a subject change. His eyes took in the room. “What is this place anyway?”

“We’re a bit of a hybrid.” Rosemary gave him one more look to let him know that she knew what he was trying to do with the question. “Think teen center but with a modern twist.”

“In what way?

“Do you remember those midnight basketball programs?”

“In the nineties, right. Trying to keep the kids off the streets.”

“Exactly. I won’t go into if they worked or not, but the thing is, the programs were geared toward poor, inner-city kids-and to some, there was clearly a racist overtone. I mean, basketball in the middle of the city?”

“And you guys are different?”

“First off, we don’t cater strictly to the poor. This may sound somewhat right wing, but I’m not sure we’re the best source to help the African American or inner-city teens. They need to do that within their own community. And in the long run, I’m not sure you can stop the temptations with something like this. They need to see that their way out isn’t with a gun or drugs, and I doubt a game of basketball will do that.”

A group of boys-cum-men shuffled by her office, all duded out in goth black accessorized with a variety of items in the chain-n-stud family. The pants had huge cuffs and you couldn’t see their shoes.

“Hey, Rosemary.”

“Hey, guys.”

They kept walking. Rosemary turned back to Mike. “Where do you live?”

“ New Jersey.”

“The suburbs, right?”

“Right.”

“Teens from your town. How do they get in trouble?”

“I don’t know. Drugs, drinking.”

“Right. They want to party. They think they’re bored-maybe they are, who knows?-and they want to go out and get high and go to clubs and flirt and all that stuff. They don’t want to play basketball. So that’s what we do here.”

“You get them high?”

“Not like you think. Come on, I’ll show you.”

She started down the bright yellow corridor. He stayed by her side. She walked with her shoulders back and head high. The key was in her hand. She unlocked a door and started down the stairs. Mike followed.

It was a nightclub or disco or whatever you call them nowadays. It had the cushioned benches and round tables that lit up and the low stools. There was a DJ booth and a wooden floor, no mirrored ball but a bunch of colored lights that swirled in patterns. The words CLUB JAGUAR were spray-painted graffiti style against a back wall.

“This is what teens want,” Rosemary McDevitt said. “A place to blow off steam. To party and hang with friends. We don’t serve alcohol, but we serve virgin drinks that look like alcohol. We have good-looking bartenders and waitresses. We do what the best clubs do. But the key is, we keep them safe. Do you understand? Kids like your son drive in and try to get fake IDs. They want to buy drugs or find a way to get alcohol even though they are underage. We are trying to prevent that by channeling it in a healthier way.”

"With this place?”

“In part. We also offer counseling, if they need that. We offer book clubs and therapy groups and we have a room with Xbox and Playsta- tion 3 and all the rest of what you often associate with a teen center. But this place is the key. This place is what makes us, pardon the teenage vernacular, cool.”

“Rumor has it that you serve.”

“Rumor is wrong. Most of the rumors are started by the other clubs because they’re losing business to us.”

Mike said nothing.

“Look, let’s say your son came into the city to party. He could go down Third Avenue over there and buy cocaine from one alley. The guy in the stoop fifty yards away from here sells heroin. You name it, the kids buy it. Or they sneak into a club where they’ll get wasted or worse. We protect them here. They can get their release in safety.”

“Do you take in street kids too?”

“We wouldn’t turn them away, but there are other organizations better equipped for that. We aren’t trying to change lives in that way because frankly I don’t think that works. A kid gone bad or from a wrecked home needs more than what we offer. Our goal is to help keep the basically good kids from slipping up. It is almost the opposite problem-parents are too involved nowadays. They are on their kids twenty-four/seven. The teens today have no room to rebel.”

The argument was one he had made to Tia many times over the years. We are too all over them. Mike used to walk the streets by himself. On Saturdays he would play in Branch Brook Park all day and not come back until late. Now his own kids couldn’t cross the street without him or Tia watching carefully, afraid of… of what exactly?

“So you give them that room?”

“Right.”

He nodded. “Who runs this place?

“I do. I started it three years ago after my brother died of a drug overdose. Greg was a good kid. He was sixteen. He didn’t play sports so he wasn’t popular or anything. Our parents and society in general were too controlling. It was only maybe the second time he had done drugs.”

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugged, started for the stairs. He followed her up in silence.

“Ms. McDevitt?”

“Rosemary,” she said.

“Rosemary. I don’t want my son to become another statistic. He came here last night. Now I don’t know where he is.”

“I can’t help you.”

“Have you seen him before?”

Her back was still to him. “I have a bigger mission here, Mike.”

“So my son is expendable?”

“That’s not what I said. But we don’t talk to parents. Not ever. This is a place for teens. If it gets out-”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

“It is part of our mission statement.”

“And what if Adam is in danger?”

“Then I would help if I could. But that’s not the case here.”

Mike was about to argue, but he spotted a bunch of the goths down the corridor.

“Those some of your clients?” he asked, entering her office.

“Clients and facilitators.”

“Facilitators?”

“They sort of do everything. They help keep the place clean. They party at night. And they watch the club.”

“Like bouncers?”

She tilted her head back and forth. “That’s probably too strong a term. They help the newbies fit in. They help maintain control. They keep an eye on the place, make sure no one lights up or does drugs in the bathroom, that kind of thing.”

Mike made a face. “The inmates controlling the prison.”

“They’re good kids.”

Mike looked at them. Then back at Rosemary. He studied her for a second. She was fairly spectacular to look at. She had a model’s face, the kind with cheekbones that could double as letter openers. He glanced back at the goths. There were four, maybe five of them, all a haze of black and silver. They were trying to look tough and failing miserably.

“Rosemary?”

“Yes?”

“Something about your rap isn’t working with me,” Mike said.

“My rap?”

“Your sales pitch for this place. On one level it all makes sense.”

“And on another?”

He turned and looked at her straight on. “I think you’re full of crap. Where is my son?”

“You should leave now.”

“If you’re hiding him, I’m going to tear this place down brick by brick.”

“You’re now trespassing, Dr. Baye.” She looked down the corridor at the group of goths and gave a small nod. They shuffled toward Mike, surrounding him. “Please leave now.”

“Are you going to have your”-he made quote marks with his fin- gers-“ ‘facilitators’ toss me out?”

The tallest goth smirked and said, “Looks like you’ve already been tossed around, old man.”

The other goths giggled. There was a soft blend of black and pale and mascara and metal. They wanted so to be tough and they weren’t and maybe that made them that much scarier. That desperation. That want to be something that you are not.

Mike debated his next move. The tall goth was probably in his early twenties, lanky, big Adam’s apple. Part of Mike wanted to go for the sucker punch-just deck the son of a bitch, take out the leader, show them he meant business. Part of him wanted to go with a forearm blow to that bobbing throat, leave the goth with sore vocal chords for the next two weeks. But then the others would probably jump in. He might be able to take on two or three, but maybe not this many.

He was still mulling over his next move when something caught his eye. The heavy metal door buzzed open. Another goth entered. It wasn’t the black clothes that made Mike pull up this time.

It was the black eyes.

The new goth also had a strip of tape across his nose.

His recently broken nose, Mike thought.

Some of the goths came over to the broken-nose guy and offered up lazy high fives. They moved as though swimming through pancake syrup. Their voices too were slow, lethargic, nearly Prozac induced. “Yo, Carson,” one managed to utter. “Carson, my man,” croaked another. They lifted their hands to slap his back as if this took great effort. Carson accepted the attention as though he was used to it and it was his due.

“Rosemary?” Mike said.

“Yes.”

“You not only know my son, you know me.”

“How’s that?”

“You called me Dr. Baye.” He kept his eyes on the goth with the broken nose. “How did you know I was a doctor?”

He didn’t wait for the answer. There was no point. He hurried toward the door, bumping the tall goth as he did. The one with the broken nose- Carson -saw him coming. The black eyes widened. Carson stepped back outside. Mike moved faster now, grabbing the metal door before it closed all the way, heading outside.

Carson with the broken nose was maybe ten feet in front of him.