Grave Truth

Chapter 3

3

Glenn was right about one thing. Okay, two things. I am scary when I’m hungry (though I won’t cop to being “little”). And I hadn’t admitted it to anyone other than myself, but I’d decided to take the case. Conditionally. If Roger later advised that the fires of hell would rain down upon me (or the fires of State Attorneys or ethics boards—same diff), I would listen to him. But in the meantime, some cursory digging couldn’t hurt.

The next morning, I started by reviewing the material Mr. Spencer had given me. His niece’s good-for-nothing boyfriend was, as expected, good for nothing. Fortunately for his niece, the guy wasn’t exactly a kingpin, either. I ran a background check on Troy Cantrell and came up with a few possibilities, but only one that fit the demographics and location. He had a few arrests, including a trespassing, but nothing too serious. The only drug charge that had stuck was a misdemeanor possession.

I explored a few more digital avenues for both Addy and Mr. Good-for-Nothing Cantrell, as well as doing a cover-my-ass background check on my potential clients, the Spencers. There were no big revelations on any front, no screen flashing SHE IS HERE or BEWARE, THEY ARE PSYCHOPATHS. When my eyes began crossing, I transitioned to abusing my phone ear instead. I checked the local hospitals and put in a call to a friend with the police department. Addy Hastings wasn’t being treated for anything catastrophic, nor was she in custody. Though I was beginning to feel like I was.

Too much office time always makes me antsy. An agitated hum vibrated through me, knocking everything just a bit off true. I hopped in Cecil and headed to the office supply store for some color copies of Addy’s picture before making the rounds of the shelters.

The admin types at those facilities tended to be pretty close-mouthed about their clientele, but a few people were willing to talk with me. Having a background with the Public Defender’s Office rather than law enforcement probably didn’t hurt, nor did the fact that I was looking for a minor. Still, no one on staff admitted to recognizing her. I’d come back another day if necessary to talk to the “residents” with a plan of approach and possibly some help.

The hours slipped away without me eating lunch, and I settled for a late-day, freezer-burned burrito back at my office. The paper towel I’d wrapped the burrito in to nuke it had adhered to the last cheesy-beany chunk. I was picking at it, trying to work out how hungry I still was and whether it was worth the effort or the extra fiber, when I heard the metallic rattle of someone fighting my sticky screen door.

Cool air rushed inside as Roger opened the front door, then wrestled the screen door behind him until it was flush with the doorframe. He moved slowly, sweeping the room with bloodshot eyes that rested atop heavy bags.

I can count the number of times Roger has dropped by my office on one hand.

“So,” he said, “this is your office?”

Maybe less than one hand.

I waved him to a chair with a Vanna White flourish before carrying the burrito bit to my kitchen trash, where it dropped with a size-appropriate thunk. “Can I get you anything?” I called out.

He didn’t answer, but shook his head when I asked again on my return. “Are you alright?” I asked.

“Yeah, I just—” He stopped, rubbing his hands over his face as if to get the feeling back to a numb limb. He wore his usual work attire of a stylish suit whose provenance was lost on me. But like last night, the knot of his tie had inched away from his collar, and his hand crept up to loosen it more. “Honestly, Sydney, I could use some help.”

“Okay,” I said slowly, trying not to let my imagination get the best of me. Roger and I had worked on some challenging cases together, and it was hard not to wonder what would affect him this way.

He took a deep breath. “First, though, your runaway. We might have to get creative, but if we’re careful, we should be able to take the case.”

“We?” I asked. Roger rarely used pronouns—or any other words—without intention.

“I have some ideas about her situation, when you track her down. If the aunt and uncle are interested.” I raised a brow, and he raised one right back at me, asking, “Did you tell Mr. Spencer you’d take the case?”

I glanced at the clock, realizing I was almost out of afternoon to do so. I called Mr. Spencer’s cell phone, but there was no answer. I left a message on his voicemail, asking him to get in touch about a contract.

“Done,” I said, turning my attention back to Roger. “So what is it I can help you with?”

He looked away before admitting, “My father is dying.”

I reached across the desk to take his hand, but Roger leaned back, as if anticipating comfort and avoiding it. “I’m so sorry, Roger.”

He nodded and met my eyes, but couldn’t hold them. “It’s been coming on for a while. That’s why I had you track down Deidre’s friend.”

Deidre was Roger’s sister and a former exotic dancer, as was the friend I’d located a couple of months ago. I’d never actually met Deidre, but I had borrowed one of her gowns for a fancy, work-related evening with Roger.

“Do you need me to find Deidre?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No. She’s staying with me now, and she’s seen him. I actually need you to talk with my dad.”

I pretended not to notice when his voice cracked. “Sure, I can do that. When?”

“Now?” he asked.

I took a moment to survey the stacks on my desk and in my head. The latter were bigger, but there was nothing that couldn’t wait until tomorrow. “Okay,” I said, “let’s go.”