Grave Truth

Chapter 6

6

I hadn’t spoken to Addy’s friend yet, but while I was out, I’d gotten an email from the girl with the recent photo of Addy and her boyfriend. My pitiful color office printer made them both look jaundiced, but at least it was recent. Time to hit the clubs.

It was early enough to get decent parking and walk in without a cover charge at the first club in the Tennessee Street cluster, which meant it was too early for anyone I was looking for to be there. I did a quick walk-through anyway, familiarizing myself with the layout, especially the bathrooms and exits. A few young men huddled by the bar, but most of the space was taken up by a loud dance floor, which was slightly sticky and now eerily empty. The blasted 80s pop still rang in my ears when I returned to my car.

I did the same at two more clubs before I decided I’d hit the wall. I couldn’t imagine how miserable I’d be when I actually had to contend with patrons and sloshing drinks. Still, it was time for my reward.

The crowd at my favorite by-the-slice pizza place was thick, but nothing like the typical lunch mob. I let my mind and eyes wander as I stood in line. It was a mixed clientele—not entirely overrun by college kids—and relatively well-behaved, though I could feel the energy escalating. The music in the background was alternative rock and a little loud for conversation, but nowhere near as deafening as the dance music had been at the clubs.

I perched on a stool at the bar with my mushroom and olive pizza (a slice as big as my head) and a glass of golden craft beer, enjoying the carbs and anonymity. About a third of the way through, I dropped my slice on my round, metal tray.

No way…

I leaned sideways for a better look, nearly flipping my stool because my feet didn’t touch the ground.

Yes, way…

The investigator gods were smiling upon me. Sitting around the corner of the half-square bar was a young woman that looked suspiciously like the Addy Hastings in my photo. Minus the jaundice. She wore an oversized sweatshirt over faded jeans, no makeup, and a backpack sat on the floor by her feet. She sat alone, eating a slice of pepperoni with a can of Coke, and there was an empty seat next to her.

I grabbed my own dinner and weaved through the crowd. “This seat taken?” I asked.

She glanced at me like she wanted to say something smart-assed, and in that moment I knew it was Addy. Her face was leaner now, more adult, but its expression was so like the one caught by the camera in Mr. Spencer’s picture that I felt a moment of déjà vu. Instead of a kitten, her attention returned to blotting her pizza with a napkin and she said, “No.”

“Good,” I said, settling next to her. “That guy over there kept accidentally brushing my ass every time he walked by. I mean, come on—how many times do you have to get up to check on your order?”

I felt bad throwing a stranger under the bus, but since I didn’t specify which guy, the skeeziness was evenly diffused among everyone at the table I’d indicated. Each man was only a third of a skeeze. And it was in service of a good cause.

I tucked back into my slice, but kept dropping vegetable chunks on my lap while surreptitiously watching Addy. Her hair was still long, but she’d hacked some random layers into the front. It was also still brown, except where it was streaked with blue. Bluish-gray, really.

“What do you call that color?” I asked.

“Brown,” she said, around a bite.

As I’d suspected, a smart-ass. My voice was flat with restraint as I clarified, “The other color.”

“Distressed denim.”

“Seriously?” I asked, getting into character. Fortunately I’d dressed casually. Jeans. Plain V-neck T-shirt under the button-down flannel I’d thrown on when it got cool. Boots.

She looked down at my feet, as if I’d given the universe—and her—a nudge. “Nice boots,” she said, with genuine appreciation.

My friend Noel had given me grief for wearing the same boots to Cooper’s a month or so ago. Brown leather, western style.

“Thanks,” I said, pulling my pants leg higher to better admire them. “I lived in New England for a while. Took off when I broke up with my boyfriend. But it was almost worth staying, just so I could own a closet full of boots and actually wear them ten months out of the year.”

She nodded, sipping her Coke through a straw tucked in the can. “I have friends who wear boots to—”

To school was my guess, but she caught herself, continuing after a brief pause.

“To work or out to clubs or wherever, with short shorts. I’m sorry, but that just looks stupid. Like you’re trying out a new stripper act or something.”

“True.” I added, “I bet their feet reek, too.”

Addy snorted. “Yeah. And their boots stink up the house. But they won’t leave them outside because they’re afraid something will crawl in them. Morons.”

I tipped my glass high and watched the last foamy trickle of beer before it hit my thirsty tongue, then pointed at my plate. “You mind watching this while I get a glass of water?”

She shook her head and declined my offer to get her one. I meandered around the bar to the self-serve water station, surveying the restaurant the whole way. No sign of the no-good boyfriend Troy Cantrell. I chugged some water, deliberately splashing my sleeve when I refilled. Grabbing a stack of napkins, I blotted my cuff while heading toward a trash can by the door. No sign of the loser in the parking lot, either.

I reclaimed my stool with a sigh, only to realize I had to pee. No wonder—I’d just drunk a gallon of water on top of my beer. But my bladder would have to wait.

Addy ignored me, as though whatever camaraderie we’d established had withered in my brief absence. “So,” I said, biting into my now-cold pizza, “what brings you to Tallahassee?”

She flashed wary eyes at me. Then she tried to look cool, but she didn’t have enough maturity or experience at duplicity to pull it off. “What makes you think I’m not from here?”

“The way you keep staring at your pizza,” I said, “like you’re wondering if you stepped through a doorway into another dimension without realizing it.”

“I have never seen a slice of pizza this big,” Addy admitted, with a hint of child-like wonder.

“You know, they could fit a body in the oven, lying flat,” I said.

Her eyes twinkled, forecasting a bit of snark. “Your body, maybe.”

I ignored the urge to smack the little twerp and instead noted, “You’re not exactly Manute Bol yourself.”

“Who?”

I rolled my eyes. “A very tall dude who used to play basketball.”

I took another sip of water, slowly, as though it were another beer and I was deciding whether it was too fancy-crafty for my plebeian palate. Really, I was wondering how I’d gone into this situation with no plan whatsoever. Obviously I never thought I’d run into the girl. But now that I had…

“I’ve always had a soft spot for really tall guys I look ridiculous standing next to,” I confessed. “So how tall is the boyfriend who brought you here? The one you really want to ditch but haven’t worked out how to do it yet.”

With that comment, I blew past her being wary of me and into I’m-about-to-kick-you-and-run territory. Her eyes and mouth narrowed, a perfect visual representation of anger on a nonverbal communication flashcard. With a dash of fear. “Are you a cop?” she asked.

“Why? Are there cops looking for you?” I asked, matter-of-fact.

“No!” she protested, looking around involuntarily. As though she thought there could be.

Interesting.

“Good, because I’m not a cop.”

She crumpled her napkin in her hand and squeezed it tightly. “Then what are you?”

“Someone who can help.”

She snorted with disbelief. “What’s that mean, you’re a perv?”

“No!” I yelled, an energetic echo of her protest a few moments ago. Fortunately, a loud pizza joint is one of the better places to have a heated discussion about law enforcement and perverts. I took a deep breath, reminding myself not to let a teenager push my buttons. Even though it is their natural superpower.

What was their kryptonite… Honesty? Hearing the truth from me might throw the kid off her game. I leaned in conspiratorially. “Do you know the Spencers?”

Her brows wrinkled as she tried to place the surname out of context. “You mean Aunt Deborah and Uncle Clint?”

“They’re worried about you,” I said. “They’ve been trying to see you, but your foster mother won’t let them.”

“Of course not, Sylvia is a b***h,” Addy spat.

“Does she hurt you?” I asked.

“You sure you’re not a perv?” she demanded, voice sharp.

I ignored her attempt at provocation. “You think she reported you missing?”

Another snort. “Yeah, right. Maybe eventually, to cover her ass. But so long as she keeps getting checks, she could give a s**t where I am.”

“Well, the Spencers do. They want to know you’re safe, so they hired me to find you.”

Her face softened, and she looked like the child she’d been… when? Last week? Five years ago? “Really?” she asked.

“Really.”

“So you’re what, a detective?”

“Sure,” I said, not wanting to quibble over terms. Especially when the ten-year-old in me thrills at being called a detective.

“And you know how to find people?” she asked.

I nodded, pulled out a business card and wrote my cell phone number on the back before handing it to her. “Where’s Troy?”

Addy tossed her balled-up napkin on her tray, but I caught it before it tumbled over the back of the bar. Don’t want to trip the bartender with recycled paper.

“Troy’s around,” she said. “You know, doing his thing.”

“And your fake ID wasn’t good enough to join him?” I asked. “Or he didn’t want you around?”

There was a bit of puffy pout to her angry bottom lip this time.

“Remember, I know how old you are,” I said, setting her napkin ball next to my own tray. “And I’ve been around enough Troys to know his M.O.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t know everything,” she muttered.

“Then tell me,” I said, leaning on my elbow on the bar.

She was quiet for a while, picking at the sleeve of her sweatshirt. A thread came loose, and she pulled and twisted it into some kind of knot art. “So what am I supposed to do?”

“What do you want to do?” I asked. She seemed dumbfounded that anyone was actually asking her. I continued, “How do you feel about the Spencers?”

She stared down at her tray and picked at its edges. Which was good, because I wasn’t sure how much more her sweatshirt could take. “They seem okay. A little boring.”

“Boring isn’t always a bad thing,” I said, afraid my sister Lisa was possessing my body as I heard the words pass my lips.

I checked the FSU Seminoles clock high on the paneled wall above us. We were edging toward ten p.m. Too late to really work anything out with the Spencers. And I didn’t want to bother Roger again tonight if I could help it. But I sure as hell couldn’t leave her with her adult boyfriend, not to mention I didn’t trust my luck to randomly stumble across her again.

I swallowed hard and forced myself to say the words. “For tonight, you can go home with me.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

I sighed. “You can crash in my guest room and we’ll figure it all out tomorrow.”

Her smile was tentative, shy, and made her look younger again. “Okay. Since you claim you’re not a perv, I guess that’ll work.”

I rolled my eyes.

“I just gotta pee first,” she said, sliding off her stool and heading to the back.

I still needed to pee, too, but no way was I shutting myself in a stall and risking her making a break for it.

Since Addy wasn’t there to do it, I picked at my pizza while I waited. It was okay, but it was so much better hot. Or maybe just the thought of sharing a bathroom with a teenager in the morning had put me off food.

I ate a few more bites, thinking about the mess that awaited me tomorrow. Checked the clock again. Stacked our trays. Checked the clock again. Did the math.

Addy was gone. I knew she was gone. I didn’t know how, but she’d snuck out. Sonuvabitch. I’d been complacent because I was in a place I sort of knew, but didn’t go to regularly.

I walked to the bathroom to make sure.

No sign of her. The little brat had played me.

I sighed. At least I knew she was okay and in town. And at least now I could pee.