My Soul to Keep (39 page)

Pryne was looking at me like I was the one who was nuts.

“That’s all I have to give you.” I set my jaw firmly for the fight I knew was coming. “Your turn.”

He pushed back his chair and stood to leave.

“Who’s Googie?” I shouted into the phone.

He stopped, clearly shocked that I’d learned his accomplice’s name. He turned and stood, the phone still in his hand. I motioned for him to raise it to his ear, which he did reluctantly.

“Don’t know no Googie.”

“You don’t need to lie about it, Mr. Pryne. I know you know him. I just don’t know where he is. Tell me where to find him.”

“How should I know?” He shrugged. “He ain’t in here.”

“You’re the liar,” I said, my anger beginning to burn. “You want to keep the package safe? You tell me where to find Googie.”

His expression tightened.

“The package isn’t safe,” I said. “Not in the hands of someone like Googie. The package belongs with his mother. She’s the one who can keep him safe.”

He sat down, a look of dumb amazement on his face. I watched him struggle, his face twisting as if he were receiving a punch. He put his head in his free hand and ran his fingers through that shock of wild, curly hair, so like Nicholas’s. A few minutes passed in silence. His expression and body began twisting as if he were in terrible pain. I watched the battle rage in his mind as Gordon Pryne fought with what was left of his conscience.

“He wants the package,” he said at last.

“Who does?”

“Who do you think?”

My mind raced. “Peter Terry? Peter Terry wants Nicholas?”

He darted a look behind him at the guard, who was standing a dozen feet away.

“Don’t know no Nicholas, lady. I’m talking about a package. That’s all. Just a package.”

“Peter Terry wants the package?”

He nodded a quick, almost imperceptible yes.

“Did you have Googie pick him up to keep him safe?”

A long wait—an eternity—before he gave me another quick nod.

I could barely breathe.

“Why?”

He mumbled something.

“I didn’t hear you. Talk into the phone. Why did you have Googie pick up the package?”

He ducked his head and hunched over the phone. “Wouldn’t want him to have the eyes in his head.”

“A sudden burst of fatherly concern?” I couldn’t hold back the sarcasm.

He looked up at me with the first sincerity I’d ever seen on his face. “They shouldn’t go after the kids.”

My jaw dropped. I was stunned by this sudden burst of decency.

“His momma take good care of him?” he asked, his eyes cast downward.

“Yes, she does,” I said. “Where is he, Gordon? Tell me where he is. If you care about him at all, you have to tell me.”

“Don’t know.”

I felt the blood rush back into my extremities. My face was hot. “You lying pig,” I said, my temper finally beginning to boil. “You tell me where he is right this minute.”

He looked at me calmly. “If they told me, I’d know, now, wouldn’t I?”

I froze. “What are you saying?”

He leaned in, almost touching the glass, and said quietly, “If I know where the package is, I’m not the only one who knows. You see what I’m sayin’?”

“No. I don’t see what you’re saying.”

“If I know where the package is, the eyes can find out where the package is.” He licked dry lips, his eyes flicking from side to side. “And the package ain’t safe no more.”

We stared each other down for several long seconds. Finally I said, “How can I find the package, then? Tell me how to find Googie.”

He leaned back, stretched his legs out, and crossed his ankles. “Don’t look for Googie.”

“What, then? What should I do?”

“Look for May Ran,” he whispered into the phone, his eyes weary, defeated. “You find May Ran, you find the package.”

And then he stood, hung up the phone, turned his back to me, and walked away.

Y
BARRA AND TWO OTHER
detectives were knocking at the door of the Little Blue School House day care an hour after Martinez’s flight landed from Phoenix. A brief interview with Juanita Garcia confirmed that her son’s nickname was indeed Googie, that he did live with her, but that she hadn’t seen him in several days. Not since he brought his girlfriend’s little boy over to play for a few hours before he left town.

“Is this the boy?” Ybarra had asked, hands shaking with rage as he showed a picture to Googie’s mother.

She’d nodded and looked up at the cop, seemingly ignorant of what her son had done. “He’s not in some kind of trouble, is he? Is he hurt? You haven’t hurt my Googie, have you?”

They’d cuffed her, stuck her in the squad car, and called the day-care kids’ parents to pick up their kids, who had all been parked at day care on a holiday weekend by blue-collar parents who couldn’t afford to take the day off. Someone had lined them up in plastic kiddie chairs in the backyard with Popsicles melting on their hands. A couple of cops were talking to them gently, one by one, while others combed the day care. The Physical Evidence Section of CAPERS showed up in a white van and unpacked their gear.

The closet in Googie’s room was exactly as Christine had described. Venice’s drawing had been almost surgically correct. Boots, collared shirts—all worn, many of them plaid. The Phoenix Suns jersey was hanging right there. Nash. Number thirteen.

Martinez was there when they bagged and tagged the Nash jersey.

“Great floor vision,” the PES investigator had commented as he took a picture with gloved hands and folded the shirt into a brown paper bag.

As he left the house, Martinez called me and told me the whole story.

“Does he own a 1963 Ford Fairlane?” I asked.

“Ms. Garcia developed a sudden inability to understand English when we asked her that question,” Martinez said. “We eventually got her to admit that her precious Googie borrows it from a friend sometimes.”

“She give you a name?”

“Batiste. Carlos Batiste.”

“Is it the guy you were looking for?” I asked. “The one with the criminal record?”

“Nope. Just another unemployed loser living at his mother’s house.”

I gave him my news about Gordon Pryne.

He whistled. “If you hadn’t come out of there with this, I’d be hauling you to the woodshed right now. What were you—”

I cut him off. “Save the spanking for later. Who or what is May Ran?”

“How should I know?” Martinez snapped.

Over the next hours, the cops took the day care apart, confiscated everything in Googie’s closet, and emptied the sandbox into bags, hauling it all down to DPD headquarters for a thorough going-over by PES.

The Fairlane was soon located a few blocks away—parked inside a garage and covered with a tarp, and still sporting the stolen plates. Its owner was promptly arrested, and the car was towed to the pound. PES investigators ripped the black carpet from the trunk and began examining it.

I was with Maria when Martinez and Ybarra came to tell her what they’d found.

Martinez sat beside her at her kitchen table as Ybarra methodically laid out the evidence.

“We found hairs consistent with Nicholas’s in the sand we took from the sandbox.”

Maria looked at me, tears already forming in her brown eyes. “The
snickerdoodles. At least he got to play outside. That’s a good sign, don’t you think?”

I nodded, reached across the table, and gripped her hand.

“Hairs consistent with Nicholas’s were found in the carpet we lifted from the closet, as well as from the carpet we took from the trunk of the Fairlane. We also recovered sand consistent with the sand from the day care’s sandbox in the trunk of the Fairlane.” Ybarra paused and took a breath, glancing first at Martinez, who reached for Maria’s other hand. “Along with a trace of blood we’ve typed to match Nicholas’s.”

Maria gasped and crumbled. Martinez hugged her while she sobbed. I got up to fetch Kleenexes and a glass of ice water, all the while vowing to kill Googie and Gordon Pryne with my bare hands if I ever got the opportunity.

When I returned to the table, Maria wiped her face with both hands, accepted a tissue, refused the water, and squared her shoulders. Ybarra looked at Martinez, who nodded for him to continue.

“It’ll be a few days before we have DNA on any of this, but the evidence strongly suggests we’re on the right track.”

Maria nodded numbly.

“I wouldn’t worry too much about the blood,” Martinez said gently. “Don’t think the worst. Not yet.”

“How much blood was there?” I asked.

“Trace amounts. Almost nothing. Could have been from a skinned knee,” Ybarra said. He put his pen down onto the neatly printed notes he’d been reading from. “Nothing suggesting anything like a mortal wound.”

“Had the carpet been cleaned?” Maria asked.

“No. The carpet was full of sand and hairs. It hadn’t even been vacuumed.”

Martinez spoke up. “It helps when you’re dealing with morons.”

Ybarra nodded. “They left us all the evidence we needed. They might as well have written us a letter.”

“Or drawn a map,” Maria said grimly. “That would be helpful at this point, wouldn’t it?”

“What about Gordon Pryne?” I asked. “Have you gotten anything out of him?”

“His lawyer won’t let us near him,” Martinez said. “Your ‘employer’ “—he shot a look at me—”is already claiming any information he gave you is inadmissible.”

“Is
it inadmissible?” I asked.

“That’s a question for the DA,” Ybarra said.

“I don’t care if it’s admissible or not,” Maria said. “I just want my son back.” She took a sip of water and turned to me. “Dylan, do you think he’d talk to you again?”

I thought about it but shook my head. “I don’t think so, Maria. I think he’s told me everything he knows. He’d made a point to not know the particulars. So Peter Terry couldn’t get the information out of him.”

“Who’s Peter Terry?” Ybarra asked.

The three of us looked at one another.

“Gordon Pryne’s inner demon,” I said at last. “Think of him as an imaginary friend’s evil twin.”

Ybarra checked his notes. “The name Joe Riley ring a bell?”

“Why?” I asked.

“Pryne added him to his visitors list today. He doesn’t work for either of the lawyers—”

“He put him on the list?” I said.

“Why? Who is he?” Martinez asked.

I shook my head, not believing it myself. “Long story. It’s not important.”

“You sure?” Ybarra asked. “Can I get an address? I’d like to know why—”

“I don’t have one. I wouldn’t have any idea how to get in touch with Joe Riley. Any luck on May Ran?” I asked, anxious to change the subject.

“Nada,” Martinez said. “And we’re still looking for Googie. Nobody we’ve talked to will admit to knowing where he is.”

“What about the girlfriend?” I asked. “His mom said he had a girlfriend.”

“We can’t find anyone who knows who she is,” Ybarra said. “And Ms. Garcia has lawyered up and developed a severe case of amnesia.”

“Nothing in his room to suggest who the girlfriend might be?” Maria asked.

“Nothing we’ve found so far.” Martinez looked at his watch. “They’re probably still over there.”

Ybarra and Martinez left. I spent some time with Maria, the two of us spinning optimistic scenarios like puffy clouds of cotton candy at a carnival. Maybe Googie and his girlfriend were holed up somewhere and Nicholas was playing in a hotel pool, thinking he was on vacation. Nicholas might be playing on a swing set in the summer sunshine. Or making sand castles. Maybe he finally got to have Sugar Babies for breakfast.

I left them as the sun was going behind the clouds and checked my messages for the first time, realizing with a shock that I’d forgotten to meet Liz and Christine for the bunny exchange. I dialed Liz. My apology came tumbling out at the first sound of her voice.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I figured something was up when I couldn’t raise you. I couldn’t get Christine on the plane today anyway.”

“She didn’t have another attack, did she?”

“No. She just doesn’t want to leave until Nicholas comes home.”

“But that could take—”

“I know,” she said. “But she said he needs her. I believe her, Dylan.”

“So do I.”

I filled Liz in on the day’s events, and we agreed to meet at my house. I hung up and perused the list of calls I’d received. Four more calls from my father, one of which was from his home number—which meant it was probably from Kellee. And one message from a number I didn’t recognize. I pushed Return and waited.

“Gail Eschenbrenner,” the voice said.

I gulped and briefly considered hanging up. I assumed she was calling to castigate me for interfering with her client.

“Ms. Eschenbrenner, this is Dylan Foster. Returning your call.”

Her tone was professional and neutral. “Thanks for calling me back. You got my message, then?”

“Um, no, actually. I just saw the number on my caller ID.”

“I wonder if we could meet?”

“Um … sure,” I said, already thumbing through my excuse file and preparing my cancellation story. I was consumed with regret that I’d ever called her in the first place. What could she possibly have to say to me but to tell me to go straight to red-hot hell? If I were her, I’d string me up by my thumbs and beat me silly.