Little Girls Lost (Carson Ryder, Book 6) Read online

  The anger in her face softened. “It’s … good. Thanks for asking.”

  Sandhill smiled. “That’s great to hear. How about the next time you go off on a toot you paint a target on Jacy’s back? Maybe a few words under it, something like, ‘Come and get me.’”

  Nike’s eyes widened until there seemed no more face for them, and she walked away on legs as stiff as posts.

  Ryder was at his desk, rethinking his time with Harry Nautilus and wondering if anything else could go wrong in his life. The phone rang. It was Commander Ainsley Duckworth, Squill’s majordomo.

  “Hey, Ryder, the chief needs to see you.”

  Acting chief, Ryder thought, hearing Mayor Philips in his head. “What’s he want, Ducks?”

  “The name’s Duckworth, Ryder. Commander Duckworth to you. Here’s your first command of the day: How about you hustle your worthless ass over here, pronto. The chief’s got a chore for you.”

  Chapter 11

  Ryder drove by the restaurant three times before parking, like if he kept circling the block, the restaurant might disappear. When it didn’t, he parked in front of a neon window sign screaming THE GUMBO KING.

  He stood on the sidewalk, lifted his sunglasses, and studied the neighborhood. A half mile from the heart of the city, it was working class, more black than white, sixty-forty maybe. This particular block was zoned for business: restaurant, dry cleaner, beauty parlor, a storefront grocery with a table of fresh fruit and vegetables displayed outside the door. A small park occupied half of the next block, green space reclaimed after a warehouse had burned to the ground. It had been then-councilwoman Norma Philips who’d spearheaded the project, Ryder recalled.

  He dropped the shades in his pocket, turned to the restaurant, and went inside.

  Ryder was surprised at how neat the place was, light and airy, with glittering strands of Mardi Gras beads strung from pine walls polished to a buttery glow. Here and there hung festival masks either frightening or comical. The air was perfumed with thyme and garlic and cayenne. Clifton Chenier played the “Zydeco Cha Cha” over the sound system. There were no customers, but it was just past eleven a.m., the place open maybe five minutes.

  Before he’d even pulled out his chair, a big-bosomed black woman with an electric smile banged through the doors from the kitchen, a pot of coffee in one hand, white ceramic mug in the other.

  “You look like a man needin’ caffeine,” she said, filling the mug and setting it on the table.

  “Actually, I need to see Conner Sandhill.”

  The woman’s smile flattened into tight-eyed scrutiny. Her toe tapped the floor.

  “You’re a cop, right?”

  “I’ve been getting conflicting opinions. But I think so.”

  The waitress returned to the kitchen. Ryder heard a female whisper followed by a deep male groan. Sandhill arrived a minute later. He was a big, barrel-chested guy wearing a felt crown and a vest fronted with purple sequins. Sequins were missing and the blank areas had been filled in with purple dots of paint. Sandhill sat—nimbly for such a moose, Ryder noted, feeling Sandhill give him the once-over with large eyes, his bushy mustache twitching as if he were checking Ryder’s scent.

  “I remember seeing you a time or two, Ryder. Years ago. You go after the psychos these days, right? Is that why you’re here? Has someone reported me as psychotic?”

  “I was ordered here by the acting chief of police, Mr Sandhill. He wanted me to talk to you.”

  Sandhill slammed his fist on the table.

  “CORNBREAD!”

  The waitress pushed through the kitchen doors seconds later. She slid a plate on to the table, four steaming squares of cornbread, butter and honey to the side.

  “I’m not hungry,” Ryder said, not wanting to break bread with the guy.

  “I’d advise it,” Sandhill said. “Stress has put you off your feed lately, right, Detective? People getting on you about losing weight?”

  Ryder stared, nonplussed. A half dozen people, Nautilus included, had asked if he was on a diet. Just yesterday Clair Peltier had given him her third Your-Body-Needs-Sleep-and-Fuel lecture in two weeks.

  “Uh, how did you know that?”

  Sandhill nodded at Ryder’s waist. “Your belt’s buckled to a new hole. More tongue’s showing on the far side.”

  Ryder had pulled the belt two notches tighter the preceding week. He looked down and saw the old indentation in the leather from years in the same position. The leather beside the current hole was unmarred. One glance and Sandhill had scoped it out and added it up.

  Jesus, Ryder thought.

  “Eat,” Sandhill said.

  Driven by the glorious aroma, Ryder couldn’t help himself, wolfing down two pieces of the yellow manna.

  “Now that you’ve had a bit of a repast,” Sandhill said, buttering his own piece of cornbread, “might I ask what the ever-talented Terrence Squill wants of me?”

  “We’ve got a problem, Mr Sandhill.” Ryder dabbed crumbs from his mouth with a napkin. “The missing girls. Nothing’s coming together. We need fresh eyes. Plus we found one of the abducted girls, LaShelle Shearing. Dead.”

  “The body in the fire.” Sandhill nodded. “You guys aren’t doing real good, PR-wise.”

  “A girl abducted a year ago, then two girls taken in under two weeks. No evidence, nothing. No one’s seen anything, heard anything.”

  Sandhill pushed the platter to Ryder. One square of cornbread left. Ryder grabbed it.

  “Who’s leading the investigations?” Sandhill asked.

  “I did at first, by default. Like you noted, I’m a member of the PSIT, which stands for—”

  “The Psychopathological and Sociopathological Investigative Team,” Sandhill completed, staring Ryder in the eye. “You and Harry Nautilus. For two guys, you’ve had big results. The morgue killer, the serial-killer-memorabilia freaks, the family of millionaire psychos that weirdness in New York, that preacher case … I’d think you’d be a natural on the abduction, Ryder. You’ve got an interesting history with psychopaths.”

  Maybe because my brother’s crazy, Ryder considered saying. A man accused of killing five women. Or perhaps because I grew up in a house where any wrong word or glance or sound could turn my father from a respected engineer into a violent, raging whirlwind of hate. My brother Jeremy killed my father, was institutionalized for years, escaping months ago, slipping from my hands in New York. I watched my mother die a horrific death, refusing medicine, hoping her pain purchased her way into a Heaven she feared she’d lost by not better protecting my brother and me. I dropped a Masters in psychology to become a cop … after years of studying the worst psychopaths and sociopaths in the penal system.

  How about that for history, Sandhill?

  Instead, Ryder sighed and shook his head. “Squill doesn’t care about experience, just payback. He installed Meyers as lead, supposedly. But Meyers is run by Duckworth, who happens to be—”

  “A wholly owned subsidiary of Squill,” Sandhill said. “Nothing changes, does it? Who had the great fucking idea of putting Squill into Internal Affairs, giving him a springboard back into the action? Probably that dolt, Bidwell. Now Bidwell’s taking orders from Squill. It’s ironic, but what Bidwell deserves, of course.”

  Ryder found it interesting that a guy gone from the department for several years was so well informed.

  “I’ve got a favor to ask, Mr Sandhill.”

  Sandhill held the plate to the side of the table and brushed crumbs on to it with the side of his hand.

  “My answer is no.”

  “Just see if anyone missed anything. Stop by the department and take a look.”

  “The department and I don’t get along.”

  Ryder sighed. “I don’t care about your past, Sandhill. We’re in trouble here.”

  “The department has shit on its shoes. I’m fine. And you’re either lying or misled; no way Squill wants me within a thousand miles of the MPD.”

  “The mayor o
rdered Squill to contact you.”

  “Bullshit, Ryder. The woman doesn’t know me from Adam’s poodle.”

  “She asked Squill about former cops who might help. Zemain ran your name up the flagpole, but others kept it flying. Even Bidwell, for crying out loud.”

  Sandhill crossed his arms on the table, leaned forward. “So if our new little lady mayor wants me, and Squill is required to act on the request, how is it, Detective Ryder, that you got the dirty job of asking?”

  Ryder felt his jaw clench. “Squill’s hated me for years. If I don’t convince you to give the department a few hours to mollify the mayor, Squill will spin it to look like I failed, not him.”

  Sandhill leaned back in his chair. He slipped the crown from his head, dusted it with his palm, returned it to his head.

  “You’ve got to understand, Detective, I’m gone from the game; I’ve got a new life now. I like it.”

  “What you’re saying is, no way?”

  “What I’m saying is, if MPD wants my services on a consultation basis, it might be arranged.”

  “You mean you’ll charge.”

  Sandhill winked. “Nothing gets by you, Detective Ryder. You’re a pro.”

  “What sort of, uh, payment you thinking about, Sandhill?”

  The Gumbo King pursed his lips, eyes flicking horizontally as if balancing weights on a scale.

  “An official apology, both verbal and written; reinstatement of my pension vestment with accrued interest …”

  “Come on, Sandhill, they’ll never—”

  “And two hundred bucks an hour for my consultation time.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  The Gumbo King crossed his arms high on his chest.

  “So have I spoken, so let it be writ.”

  Ryder stood and walked to the door without looking back, wondering what Squill’s next move would be. Shooting the messenger? He stepped outside and headed to the departmental Crown Victoria.

  “Ryder!” Sandhill bellowed.

  Ryder turned to see the restaurateur filling the open doorway, his face expressionless beneath the crown.

  “Harry Nautilus,” Sandhill said. “How’s he doing?”

  “He’s struggling and it’ll take a while. But he’s on the upswing.”

  The door closed without comment.

  Chapter 12

  The first official visitor Sandhill saw was the fire inspector, Gillard; a spontaneous incendiary inspection, Gillard termed the visit, the first Sandhill had heard of the term. Though Gillard had been through twice before and found wires, conduits, oven placement, ventilation and fire extinguishers all in checkmark order, something had changed.

  “Out of compliance in these areas—” Gillard snapped a sheet from a carbon-insert form and presented it to Sandhill. “The place is a three-alarmer waiting to happen.”

  “How long to comply?” Sandhill asked.

  “One week.”

  “Then?”

  Gillard tapped the door as he left, enjoying himself. “We nail this fucker shut.”

  Sandhill stared at the closed door, thinking, Here it comes …

  The second visitor was Wentz from the Health Department, who took an hour to scratch up three violations. Sandhill listened calmly as the inspector, a fortyish guy with a whiskey nose, recited arcane statutes, some of them on the books for over a century. Sandhill knew the only restaurant in the city that could pass all codes would be a place that blossomed afresh nightly, a new and perfect restaurant every sunrise.

  The inspection ended on a discordant note, Sandhill’s patience wearing out when Wentz made a reference to cockroaches. Sandhill grabbed Wentz by the shirtfront and held the inspector’s nose an inch from the heat-shimmering oven door, threatening to roast the man’s face.

  “I just do what I’m told,” Wentz howled, eyes closed against the heat, urine dribbling down his leg and across the floor, probably another code violation.

  Two days after his first meeting with Sandhill, Ryder pushed through the door a second time. He’d called earlier, requested a meeting. Sandhill had grunted something vaguely like assent and hung up.

  Sandhill sat at the table below the sign, shuffling through mail, not acknowledging his visitor. Ryder pulled out a chair, watching Sandhill arrange the mail in precise stacks. The tallest stack was bills. Ryder figured running a small restaurant was like walking a tightrope.

  “They’re putting heat on me, Ryder,” Sandhill said without looking up. “Sending inspectors. You didn’t have anything to do with this, I hope.”

  Ryder felt a flush of anger. “Did you expect anything else from Squill? He’s desperate. The mayor keeps asking if he’s gotten you to come in.”

  “What a pair, an interim mayor and an acting chief of police. Must be like working in a madhouse.”

  “Actually, Sandhill, I think the mayor’s pretty good.”

  Sandhill rolled his eyes. Ryder said, “Take a look at things, Sandhill. Read the reports. That’s all. Jesus, the guy from the Health Department says you tried to jam his face into an oven.”

  “Only because my deep-fryer wasn’t on.”

  “He could have filed a complaint, had you arrested.”

  Sandhill snorted. “Wentz has been dirty from payoffs for years. He’d overlook botulism for a roll of nickels. He won’t do anything to call attention to himself. Besides, he’s just an automaton.”

  Ryder pulled a photo from his pocket and slid it across the table, picture side down. Sandhill looked from the white square to Ryder.

  “What’s that?”

  “Turn it over.”

  Sandhill picked up the photo, winced. “Don’t do this to me, Ryder. Don’t you fucking dare.”

  Ryder scraped his chair forward and put his elbows on the table. “Maya Ledbetter, disappeared two weeks ago while walking to her grandmother’s.”

  Sandhill jumped up and began pacing like an angry lion in a tight cage.

  “I am not a cop any more. Check the sign on the window: The Gumbo King. I like my life, Ryder—it’s peaceful and I feed people.”

  Ryder produced a second photo, the one he’d pulled from the frame in the room with the stained mattress. He held it high.

  “LaShelle Shearing. Someone pried the bars from her window …”

  “You’re sandbagging me, you bastard.”

  “… found burned beyond recognition in an abandoned house—”

  Sandhill grabbed a napkin dispenser and fired it over Ryder’s head into the wall, napkins spilling across the floor. Ryder pulled a third photo from his jacket and held it high.

  “Darla Dumont, disappeared one year ago without a tra—”

  A timer bell rang from the kitchen. Sandhill said, “That means it’s time for you to leave, Ryder.” Sandhill strode to the kitchen and the swinging doors closed behind him.

  When they didn’t re-open, Ryder sighed, tucked the photos in his pocket, and left.

  Chapter 13

  Walter Hutchinson Mattoon stood at the prow of the Petite Angel and watched the sun rise over the glassy morning sea, the sparse clouds bright as hammered copper. The only sounds were a low rumble of the ship’s engine and the hull cleaving water five stories below. Though his suit was dark and the day equatorially hot, Mattoon showed no sign of sweating. He ran a hand over his spear-pointed widow’s peak, patted down a wind-blown lock of black hair, and clasped his hands behind his slender back.

  He heard a muffled ahem a dozen paces behind and turned to a diminutive man in a captain’s suit. The man pulled his five-foot-two toward five-three and snapped a crisp salute.

  “Yes, Captain Sampanong?” Mattoon enquired.

  “I think we have solved a mystery, Mr Mattoon.”

  Mattoon followed Captain Trili Sampanong into the body of the ship and down two flights of stairs, finding a tucked-away space between two towering containers. An overturned wooden chair was on the floor, beside it several pornographic magazines and an upended ashtray.

  Matto
on looked to the corner to find his steward, Pierre Valvane, in a crumpled heap, his mouth a smear of blood. The man was moaning. Above the steward stood a tall man with a shaved head, shirtless, his muscles like iron cords and his rotten-tooth mouth a festering parody of a grin.

  Most of the crew had been drawn to the commotion, and Mattoon saw the world in his employees’ faces: Asian, European, Slavic, African, Middle Eastern. All were silent and impassive, more curious than anything.

  “What is this?” Mattoon said.

  “I find him in here drinking,” the bald man said, jabbing a finger toward the steward at his feet.

  Mattoon raised a dark eyebrow. “Drinking is not prohibited, Tenzel. Not if done on the first shift of a double shift off duty.”

  “I find him drinking this.”

  The bald man reached beneath the steward and produced an empty bottle of Mattoon’s Château d’Yquem, part of a case that an inventory had revealed either missing or miscounted.

  The steward moaned again. The bald man kicked him in the knee.

  “Steady, Tenzel,” Mattoon said. “Don’t render him useless.”

  Mattoon stepped closer and considered the situation. On the one hand, he hated thievery and could not in any way countenance its appearance on his ship; on the other hand, he employed thieves. Mattoon approached the steward, setting the toes of his sleek black loafers a meter from the man’s nose.

  “Mr Valvane, do you hear me?”

  “Oui, yes,” the man said, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry, it won’t hap—”

  The bald man stepped on to the steward’s ankle. “You don’t talk. You listen.”

  “Tenzel, please.”

  The bald man reluctantly stepped from the steward’s leg. Mattoon lowered to a crouch. “Are you upset with me, Mr Valvane? Do you not find the accommodations pleasing? The working conditions satisfactory? Has the food not been to your liking?”

  “I make a terrible mistake. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s good that you recognize your error, Mr Valvane. Redemptive. Am I to understand that it won’t happen again?”

  “Oui. I mean, non.”

  Mattoon patted the man’s shoulder. “Very good. You are to return to your cabin, and I expect you to remain confined there for two weeks. Your meals will be supplied and you will be expected to shower daily. Stand him up, Tenzel.”