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

  Sandhill said, “Ever read Castaneda?”

  Ryder paused; raised an eyebrow. He opened the door to the meeting room. “It’s been years. Why?”

  “Remember the sorcerer’s concept of controlled folly? Folly with a purpose?”

  Ryder was about to make a flip comment but saw Sandhill’s face was deadly serious. Ryder displayed the IN USE sign on the door and closed it behind them.

  “Would you like me to hang up your vest and crown?”

  “I’ll wait until the brass has been and gone,” Sandhill said, wiggling chairs until finding one without a squeak. He sat and pulled close the pile of reports.

  “I told them your condition,” Ryder said. “That they weren’t supposed to be here.”

  “Precisely why they will be,” Sandhill said, picking up a file and starting to read.

  Ryder sat quietly as Sandhill absorbed data, often grunting, occasionally asking questions. Some questions seemed penetrating, some childishly basic, others made no sense at all.

  The door opened without a knock and Ryder glanced up in irritation. Bidwell pushed through just ahead of Squill. Ainsley Duckworth was in the acting chief’s wake, the wet marbles of the commander’s eyes peering from under the heavy brow. He showed Ryder his teeth. Zemain brought up the rear, embarrassment written across his face.

  “Oh shit,” Squill said, counterbalancing feigned surprise with a smirk. “We didn’t know anyone was in here.”

  “Hi, Roland,” Sandhill said to Zemain.

  Ryder said, “Uh, we’re looking through some things here, Chief …”

  Squill ignored Ryder and looked at Sandhill as if he’d suddenly materialized.

  “Nice hat, Sandhill. Get it at a Halloween store?”

  “It’s a crown,” Sandhill said. “I got it at Kings’R’Us.”

  Zemain deftly turned a chuckle into a throat-clearing sound. Bidwell blanked his face and looked out the window.

  “That’s right,” Squill said. “I heard you were king of the fry cooks or something. How’s being a fry cook compare with being a detective?”

  Sandhill thought a moment. “A cook only has to be there when the food goes in.”

  Squill’s smile melted. “How long you planning on being here, Sandhill?”

  “I can leave right now if you want.” Sandhill stood.

  Bidwell, ever the arbiter, jumped in, patting Sandhill’s shoulder, easing him back to the chair. “Sit, Conner. Take all the time you need.” Bidwell shot Squill a sidelong glance saying, We got him, let’s use him.

  Squill turned away, muscles working in his clenched jaw. Sandhill picked up a photo, and began studying it.

  “Sure would be nice to have a little privacy,” he said.

  After three hours of studying every scrap of paper and photo associated with the girls’ disappearances and asking Ryder a stream of questions, Sandhill began jamming material into a manila folio.

  “It’s a jumble. I’ve got some ideas, but I want to think a little more. I’ll take some stuff with me.”

  Ryder raised a dark eyebrow. “I’ll have to clear it. I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to take things home.”

  “Never ask, Detective Ryder. Just do. You get a lot more accomplished that way.”

  “The world according to Conner Sandhill?”

  “It’s a kingly principle, Detective. Ever read The Golden Bough? Frazer asserts that a monarchy can develop much faster than a democracy. Picture a group of hunters on a hill deciding which direction to go. In a democracy everyone has an opinion to be argued and dissected and voted on. In a monarchy the king points his finger and says, ‘We’re going there.’”

  “For better or worse.”

  “It depends on the king. If he moves from reason and the proper accumulation of kingly wisdom, the journey stands a solid chance of success.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  Sandhill tied the folio shut, walked to the door. “At least it’s motion. Henry Moore bores me, but I purely love Calder.”

  Sandhill was at the back entrance when Squill slipped from a side hall, eyes slitted at the folio under Sandhill’s arm.

  “You’re leaving everything right here, Sandhill. I figured you’d try and take something on the sly. That’s a habit of yours, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t work well from memory, Terrence.”

  Squill bristled at the use of his first name. “Case information is for cops only. It stays.”

  Sandhill threw the folio in the air and Squill made a clumsy catch. “It’s all yours, Terrence. I was going to look a little more, but if you don’t want me to, that’s fine. Our deal’s done. I expect to find my doorway clear of inspectors when I get back.”

  “Inspectors?” Squill said, a smile ghosting his thin lips. “What inspectors?”

  “You’re bush league, Terrence. Harassing me with pissant bureaucrats is as bush as it gets.”

  “You dishonored the badge, Sandhill. You owe us.”

  “You dream that in your sleep, too?”

  “Listen to me, you smug bastard—”

  “I don’t have to any more, Terrence. And I like the quiet.”

  Sandhill started to the door, but stopped as pictures in his mind began aligning. He watched the pictures for a moment, then turned to Squill.

  “Just one thing, Terrence. I don’t think LaShelle Shearing was killed in the house that burned. I think she was murdered somewhere else and taken there.”

  Squill’s face froze for an instant, then resumed its sneer.

  “None of the Forensics techs said that. What makes you so sure?”

  Sandhill nodded at the files in Squill’s hand. “It’s right there, Terrence. You figure it out.”

  Sandhill stepped through the door. It was raining but he was focused on the pictures in his head and didn’t notice.

  Chapter 15

  Four p.m. and the restaurant was empty of customers. Marie was at the market, Sandhill at a table struggling with bookkeeping when the health inspector, Wentz, slunk through the door carrying a thick brown envelope. Wentz raised his hand like a white flag and nodded at the envelope.

  “Easy, Sandhill. I’m just here to bring you this.”

  “A running record of my infractions?”

  Holding the envelope in front of him, Wentz edged closer, a man trying to feed a grizzly while keeping his arm. “I don’t know what the hell it is. I was over by Seven Hills when I got a call saying drive all the way back in town, pick it up, deliver it to you. Like I ain’t got enough to do, I got to be messenger boy for the goddamn—”

  Sandhill snatched the envelope. He looked inside and saw copies of the files on the abductions.

  “Is this everything?”

  “No,” Wentz said, retreating to the door. “I’m supposed to tell you that taking the folder buys probation on the inspections.”

  Sandhill stared at the door after it closed, then pushed aside his pencils and calculator and tapped the package slowly with his forefinger. That Wentz himself had been detailed to deliver the files and message was a diplomatic maneuver, a small gesture of truce. But the inspections had been suspended, not stopped, keeping alive the threat of being closed down.

  Sandhill figured the handshake was from Bidwell and a couple other brass hats, the squeeze at the end coming from Squill.

  “Hey, Sophie,” Ryder said into his desk phone, “I can’t get Harry on his cell. All I get is his voicemail. Could you tell him to call me?”

  “Harry’s back at the hospital.”

  “My God. Is he—”

  “Easy, Ryder. His temperature went up to 103° last night. An infection, not uncommon. It’s safer to hospitalize him for a day or two. He’ll receive high doses of antibiotics, be monitored around the clock.”

  “Are you sure he’s—”

  “Harry was fretting and moaning all the way there. Asked if he could leave his head at the desk and they could mail it to him when they got everything fixed. That tell you anything
?”

  Ryder exhaled. If Harry was well enough to bitch, he wasn’t at death’s door.

  “I’ll run over to the hospital.”

  “Don’t you dare. Harry needs medicine and quiet, emphasis on the quiet. You got that?”

  “I hear you loud and clear, Soph.”

  Which was the truth; Ryder’s phone volume was set on high, the signal crisp and sharp.

  The trip to the hospital took fifteen minutes. Finagling Harry’s room number from a pretty young nurse took thirty seconds. He slipped up a back stairwell to avoid the nurses’ station on Harry’s floor. It was suppertime and food carts were being wheeled from room to room. He waited until the hall was free of staff, then fast-walked to room 307.

  Ryder took a deep breath and stepped through the open door. The air tasted cold and sharp, like it had been rinsed in alcohol. Harry Nautilus was flat on his back, appearing to be asleep. His eyes blinked open at Ryder’s footsteps.

  Nautilus chuckled. “Ain’t no hiding from you, is there?”

  “I thought I was going to have to get my dog to track you down.”

  “How’s that fifty-species mutt doing?”

  Ryder smiled. “Mr Mix-up’s at camp, basically. My neighbour is watching him for a couple of weeks, until things settle down.”

  “The animal shelter lady?”

  “Yep. Mix-up gets fed and walked and spends the day playing with kindred spirits.” Ryder’s face went serious. “You OK, bro?”

  “They’re bombing me with industrial-strength antibiotics. It’s strong shit; my ass is flat wore out.”

  “I stopped by to ask a couple questions. I’m outta here in two minutes, I swear.”

  “I admire your persistence, Cars, but I still haven’t remembered anything about the attack. Sometimes it feels like something’s there—like I can hear words—but when I try and listen closer, they disappear. I’m trying.”

  Ryder shot a glance outside the door; no one coming to haul him away. He pulled a chair to the bedside and sat.

  “I’m not here about that. I need to know more about Sandhill.”

  Nautilus sighed and rolled his eyes. “Six foot three or four, maybe two-forty pounds, brown eyes and brown—”

  “Come on, what did he do, Harry? Insubordination, right? I figure this Sandhill as the type of guy who’d walk right up and spit in—”

  “Committed his resignation.”

  “What?”

  “Here’s all I know, Carson: Sandhill was there one day, gone the next. The brass sent out a one-paragraph memo saying Sandhill had ‘committed his resignation’.”

  “Instead of ‘submitted his resignation’? A Freudian slip? Maybe meaning he’d committed something illegal?”

  “I figure whoever dashed out the memo—Squill, I’d guess—was in too much of a hurry to proofread.”

  Ryder leaned back into the chair and mulled it over. Sandhill’d been thirty-seven or so at the time, a sex crimes and cold-case hotshot. Didn’t seem a time to resign from the department.

  “Sandhill was forced out, maybe? Pissing too many people off?”

  Nautilus shook his head. “You want to push a guy off the force, you re-assign him to work he hates, or a subordinate position. But if you cut him loose, he’ll come swinging back with a police-union lawyer. Neither happened with Sandhill.”

  “So Sandhill really did resign?”

  “Or knew it was the best offer he’d get.”

  Ryder leaned forward in the chair and lowered his voice. “What was the scuttlebutt, Harry? There’s always scuttlebutt.”

  Nautilus yawned and settled his head into the pillow. “I heard a dozen theories. I’m gonna let you work with him, decide for yourself.”

  “Come on, Harry. Give me just a little somethi—”

  “Sorry,” Nautilus yawned again. “Sandhill’s all yours, Carson.”

  Ryder nodded and stood. His partner was falling asleep. Ryder scooted the chair against the wall.

  “Anything else you can add, bro?”

  Nautilus pursed his lips and stared at the inside of his eyelids, finally nodding to himself. “Watch Sandhill, Carson,” he said, his voice whispering toward sleep. “Watch him real close.”

  Chapter 16

  Sandhill stood at the threshold of Nike Charlane’s second-floor apartment and absorbed the sensory barrage of compacted living. Televisions dueled with stereos. A couple argued behind a door two apartments down. Running feet thundered on the floor above his head. Babies cried. Cabbage cooked. Dogs barked.

  Though wanting to turn and run, Sandhill willed his knuckles to rap the steel door. He centered himself so Nike could see him through the peephole. She’d called a half-hour before, wanting to talk, but not saying what about. He’d walked over, two blocks.

  The door opened. Nike stayed behind it and all he saw was her hand gesturing him in. It was a corner apartment, quieter than most. She went to the living room, crooking her finger for him to follow. The scent of fresh cookies sweetened the air.

  Paintings were everywhere: on the walls, on the floor, tucked behind the couch. Most were portraits, faces of electric color clear-glazed so heavily they appeared to be floating under sunbright water. Sandhill found them beautiful and unsettling, like hummingbirds preserved in amber.

  Nike pointed to the couch, worn but not threadbare. “Have a seat, Conner.”

  “I’ve only got a few minutes.”

  “So spend them sitting.”

  He sat slowly and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, not committing himself to comfort. Nike took a chair, a low glass table gleaming between them like a field of ice.

  Sandhill said, “I want to apologize. For the other morning.”

  “Don’t. You were right.”

  “My comment about painting the target was in lousy taste.”

  “True. But that’s you, Conner.”

  “My overall theme still stands, Nike. I think—”

  Nike cut Sandhill off with a wave. She stood and began pacing. “I’m going into treatment, Conner. I talked to the center yesterday.”

  “That’s tremendous, Nike. Where you were last time?”

  “That one didn’t take too well, did it? No. A program in Birmingham. More intensive and isolated. More focused on the psychology of … addiction. All I do is work on the job at hand.”

  “If there’s anything I can do to help …”

  “There is. I want you to take care of Jacy while I’m away.”

  Sandhill looked liked he’d stepped waist deep into frigid water. It took several seconds to thaw his voice.

  “I can’t do that. She’s a little girl.”

  “You said I wasn’t keeping her safe. You’re right. When I’m … when I’m sick, I’m useless. I turn into a ghost.”

  “You’ve got to have friends who can do a better job than me. I don’t even—I guess I like Jacy and all—but I’m not big on …”

  “You don’t understand children because you’ve never been around them.”

  “No offense, but I don’t care to be; I’m not sure I liked kids when I was one. But that’s not the—”

  “There’s no one I trust to keep her as safe as you can.”

  Sandhill shook his head. “Nike, it’s out of the question. Men in their forties do not have eight-year-old girls running around their apartments.”

  “Yes they do, Conner. They’re called fathers.”

  “I don’t want to be anyone’s father.”

  Nike stared at Sandhill. An ambulance charged down the street, siren howling. The siren disappeared in the distance before Nike spoke.

  “But you could have been, Conner. A few months’ difference and …”

  Sandhill studied the carpet. “I don’t want to go there, Nike. It was forever ago.”

  “Funny, it doesn’t seem that long to me.”

  Sandhill said nothing. Nike leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes hard on Sandhill. “You ever grieve for Thena, Conner? You weren’t at the funeral. You
were close by though, right?”

  He stood and glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to go, Nike; things to do at the restaurant.”

  “You were outside, maybe. On the street?”

  Sandhill took a step toward the door. Nike said, “You’re running away. Don’t run from this, Conner. Sit down.”

  He turned, sighed, and sat as gingerly as a man with damaged knees.

  Nike said, “I’ll be in treatment for three weeks. It won’t be hard to take care of Jacy. She sleeps eight hours. Most days she’s at school another eight. You’ll hardly have to look at her.”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to look at her, it’s—”

  “Shush. She’ll have one suitcase and a bag of books. I doubt you have any Frosty-O’s for her breakfast, so I’ll supply that. She loves gumbo so supper’s taken care of, maybe a toasted cheese sandwich now and then. With dill pickles. Don’t burn the bread but make sure the cheese melts through.”

  “No, Nike. It’s impossible.”

  “She’ll be shy at first, but pretty soon she’ll wear your ear out. You’ll be amazed how bright she is …”

  “Nike.”

  “She does her homework directly after school, then she can play. Bedtime is nine thirty and you have to read her a story. I’ll have everything written down.”

  “Nike, I didn’t say I’d do this.”

  Nike sat beside Sandhill. “Please, Conner. I can’t go away if I’m afraid for Jacy. You’re the only one I trust to protect her.”

  “I just don’t think I’m qualified to—”

  She picked up his hand, squeezing it as if her need went past words and only a signal transmitted through bones and flesh could express it.

  “I know I’m asking a lot. But please, do it for me.” She paused. “No, Conner, not for me, do it for Thena.”

  Sandhill closed his eyes. The pounding of his heart was so loud he barely heard himself speak.

  “When does this experience start?”

  “Thanks, Conner. I’ll bring Jacy by tonight.” Nike kissed Sandhill’s cheek. “Now I know she’ll be safe.”

  A bored Roosevelt wandered back toward Truman’s office, pausing to unwrap a power bar, drop the torn-off end on the floor, ball up the remaining package and arc it into the trash can, whispering two points when it dropped.