Pain Management (17 page)

“We’ll see, Mama. I—”

The disconnect click cut me off. That’s how I felt: cut off. My family was still watching out for me. They’d even risked going back to my place for my few treasures. Like the pair of postage stamps that had been canceled inside Biafra during the tiny slice of time when it had functioned as a country. They’d been given to me one ugly night inside the war zone. By an old chief I’d shared the last of my freeze-dried food with. He had nothing else of value to give me, he said. And that, if I managed to survive, the stamps would always remind me of a country that had not.

They’d taken all of Pansy’s stuff, too. Not because I wanted it—I couldn’t even look at it—but because they’d never let the cops have anything that had been part of my heart.

That’s my family. That’s the kind of people they are.

And that’s why I couldn’t go back. Not yet.

“I think you’re right . . . about her still being around, close by,” I told Kevin the next day. “But all of that info’s secondhand at best. I can’t vouch for any of it. And I can’t tell you I’m any closer to her.”

“It’s been—”

“I know. I’ve been out there every day and every night. There’s . . . traces of her in a lot of places, but that’s all they are—traces, not trail-markers.”

“Do you think if you had more time . . . ?”

“This kind of work, you can go for months drawing blanks, then stumble over what you’re looking for. Or it could turn up in a few hours. I seeded the ground heavy and—”

“What does that mean, ‘seeded the ground’?”

“I’ve gone to a lot of places where Rosebud might have been, or where she might show up eventually. I talked to some people who might have seen her, might even know her . . . or that she might run into sooner or later if she’s out there. It’s a thick, deep forest she’s in, but it’s not a big one. The trails crisscross; the same people travel them. I left word. I planted some money, and I promised a lot more. The word’s out. Some have even come to me offering to sell, and—”

“You followed up, didn’t you? These people, they probably have no loyalty. For enough money, they’d—”

“The only following up I did was to offer hard cash for hard information. I don’t care what’s missing—a kilo, a kitten, or a kid—hustlers are going to crawl out from under rocks. I could spend a lot of your money on scams if I wasn’t careful. If any of them have the goods, they’ll have to deal straight up.”

“Why should they trust
you
?”

“Let’s say you had . . . uh, let’s say you had a photograph of your great-great-grandmother, okay? It’s the only one in existence; the only connection you have to your ancestors. You keep this photo in a nice frame in your living room. A junkie burglarizes your house, steals a bunch of the usual crap. And he snatches the photo, too.

“So you hire me to get the photo back. Say I find a middleman, someone who can deal with the junkie, all right? I’m willing to spend real coin for the photo, but only for
that
photo. What’s he going to do? It’s precious to
you,
but it isn’t worth squat to anyone else. He’s got no bargaining power.

“You understand what I’m telling you? Your daughter’s not
worth
anything to anybody but you. Nobody’s holding her prisoner. This doesn’t read like a snatch. Not even her cooperating with some boyfriend to hold you up for money . . . even though the odds favor it.”

“Why would you say something like that?”

“In kidnappings when the subject is more than twelve years old, about three-quarters of the perpetrators are known to the victim.”

“I never heard—”

“That’s the latest FBI breakdown,” I told him. “That’s why they collect criminal-justice data in America . . . so someone can get a grant to analyze it. Then they publish it. And write another proposal for more funding.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. But, look, if it
was
like that, you would have gotten a ransom demand, way before now. So what’s that leave? She’s out there. Somewhere. People have seen her; they must have. Maybe someone even knows where she’s staying. That’s information. Information is worth money. But only to the person who
wants
it, like I explained.

“You with me? When it comes to info about Rosebud, I’m like you’d be with your great-great-grandmother’s photo—the only buyer in town. Whoever knows, they may not
want
to trust me, but what choice do they have?”

“I understand. But if you don’t stay on the case . . . ?”

“See this card?” I said, handing him one of the hundreds I’d spread all over town. “That number, it rings right here.” I tapped the cell phone’s holster. “I’m not disconnecting it. If it rings tonight, or tomorrow, or two weeks from now, I’ll answer it. You don’t need to keep me on the books just for that.”

“Do you have any other leads you could follow?”

“Leads? Sure. How good they are, I don’t have a clue. They may all be dead ends. Or out-and-out bullshit.”

“The authorities—”

“I talked to them, too,” I said. It was true enough; Gem’s boyfriend qualified. “They’ve got other things on their minds.”

“I don’t understand.” His complexion shifted. Just a touch, but I’d hit one of his trip wires.

I kept my face flat, said: “A major case they’re working. It’s got nothing to do with your daughter. But they’ve got a manpower shortage.”

“That’s what the cops always say,” he said bitterly. “It’s just a ploy to get more money. They’ve always got all the manpower they need when the media’s on their case.”

“Sure. Anyway, you can take this to the bank: they’re not working this one real hard.”

“I know.”

“If we had any reason to believe she was across a state line—”

“She’s not,” he said, too quickly.

“How do you know?”

“You have any children, Mr. Hazard?”

“No,” I said, wondering if his lawyer had told him different.

“Then I couldn’t explain it in any way you’d understand. I love my daughter. We’re . . . connected. And I know she’s close by.”

“Well, it wouldn’t have to be strictly the truth, would it? The Mann Act is something the feds take pretty seriously. . . .”

“What’s that?”

“It’s the old ‘white slavery’ law. Transporting someone across a state line for purposes of engaging in prostitution. They wouldn’t use it on a pimp driving his stable from Portland to Seattle; but if the girl was underage, or if she was taken against her will . . .”

“No.”

“Huh?”

“Buddy’s a very intelligent, very resourceful young woman. I don’t believe for a moment she was . . . taken like you’re talking about. In any event, you can’t just
lie
to the authorities. Sooner or later, they find out.”

“But if it puts more horsepower on the street, who cares?”

“No,” he said, again. “It’s not what I want to do. I don’t think it would be in Buddy’s best interests.”

“You’re the boss,” I lied.

“Can you stay with it?”

“I can. But . . .”

“I understand. I have a . . . I don’t know, a feeling. Call it a father’s instinct. I feel you’re going to find her. And bring her home. You must have some . . . things you haven’t tried yet.”

“Yeah. But if I go there, I’m going to need more from you.”

“More . . . what? Money?”

“In a way, yes. Not money you’d pay to me, but money you’d have on hand.”

“For a ransom? How much would I—?”

“Not for ransom. For bail.”

“You think Buddy may be in—?”

“No. Not her, me. If I . . . do some of the things I haven’t tried yet, I could get popped. I can’t stay in jail, understand. I’d need to be bailed out, and
quick.
”

“My lawyer . . .”

“Sure. He can get me in front of a judge fast, if he’s got the right connections. But I’d still need a bondsman. And
he’d
need to know the surety’s in place.”

“How much would I have to—?”

“I guess it’s ten percent here, same way it is everywhere else. So ten K for a bond is the same as a hundred K in cash.”

“If I put up a bond, you’d show up for court?”

“If they took me down for anything you
could
bond me out on, I would, sure.”

“All right. I’ll set it up with Toby.”

We shook hands on it, liar to liar.

“You know a woman who calls herself Ann O. Dyne?” I asked Hong that night.

“Is this your idea of trading?” he asked, leaning forward, watching me like a specimen.

“It could be. I don’t know yet.”

“From where I sit, it’s been a one-way street up to now.”

“You don’t like where you sit, get up and walk.”

“Is that the kind of talk that impresses Gem, tough guy?”

“I wouldn’t know. I never tried it on her.”

“Don’t,” he said, his voice crackling around the edges.

I lit a cigarette, left it to burn down in the ashtray, letting my eyes get lost in the smoke.

“What’s your interest in this Dyne woman?” he finally asked, his tone telling me he knew her. Or something about her, anyway.

“I don’t know if I have any . . . yet. See, I’m a stranger here. I’ve got no rep, and I’ve got no way of checking out anyone else’s. She said she might be able to help me with finding the kid I’m looking for. I don’t want to waste any time or energy on her if she doesn’t have the connects out there to maybe deliver, that’s all.”

“You spoke to her?”

“I did.”

“Describe her, then.”

“That’s not so easy to do. I’ve seen her look two different ages, right down to the outfits. She likes wigs, so she probably likes colored contacts, too. I’m guessing she’s somewhere in her thirties. White woman. A little under medium height. Extravagant build. Kind of an educated voice. Drives a black Subaru SvX. Spends a lot of time cruising the hooker strolls, but she’s not a working girl.”

“No,” Hong said. “She’s a missionary.”

“A . . . what? You mean like a Mormon?”

“Not that. It’s not about religion for her. She tries to pull girls out of The Life.”

“She must be a big favorite of the local pimps.”

“This is Portland, not Vegas. The average pimp here is just a boyfriend who’s too lazy to work. Don’t get me wrong—we’ve got some real beauties here, too. But I never heard of any of them getting physical with Ann.”

“Has she got her own protection?”

“I don’t know. There’s rumors about her, but—”

“What rumors?”

“That she deals in black-market drugs. She was arrested for possession, once. But the charge didn’t stick.”

“Aren’t all drugs black-market?”

“I’m not talking about smack or crystal, here. I mean drugs like AZT and Betaseron.”

“What kind of market could there be for that stuff? You can get it with a scrip.”

“Not that stuff, exactly.
Like
it. Experimental stuff.”

“For people with AIDS?”

“Or Parkinson’s, or brain cancer, or any one of a dozen different things. Drugs only available in Europe, drugs that the FDA hasn’t approved yet—if you’re dying, you don’t want to wait for the bureaucracy to catch up with your problem.”

“So why work the prostie strolls? How much money could you make there?”

“That’s what I mean about her being a missionary. There’s something else going on, but nobody’s real sure what it is.”

“Not a police priority, is that what you’re saying?”

“Why should it be?” he challenged. “Between Ecstasy and heroin, our children are being eaten alive. And crank is running wild all over the state. Never mind the rapes and robberies and murders. And the stolen cars, the burglaries, and the shootings. You’ve been in a war, right?”

I nodded. I didn’t like his certainty about that, but I liked the idea of asking him where it came from even less.

“Then you know what triage is. That’s what cops do. Not just here, everywhere. Malcolm was right: the squeaky hinge
does
get the oil.”

“You said this Ann girl, she spends a lot of time on the street, right?”

“I didn’t say that. You did. But it’s true, as far as we know.”

“You ever question her about the disappearing hookers?”

“Why? You think she—?”

“No. Whoever’s doing it, they have a partner. And she doesn’t seem to,” I said, not mentioning those moving shadows in her car.

“And you know that . . . how?”

“When the night-girl population is already spooked, there’s two ways to approach them. One is to pose as a cop, the way Bianchi did. The other is to come on as a couple, looking for a bi-girl to rent. Sometimes the female half of the team makes the approach alone, pulls the girl, and brings her back to where the guy’s waiting. Sometimes they work it together, depending on how well they can pass for yuppies out for some fun.”

“You think it’s a team?” he asked, looking interested for the first time since I’d sat down.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do. It’s the only way they could have taken this many without being caught. The man drives, the woman gets out and makes the deal. Then the woman climbs in the back seat, lets the hooker in front. They’ve got her boxed then. No way out. It could be a gun, could be chloroform, could be a needle . . . there’s a hundred ways. Or, if the girl goes for the fake and comes back to their house, they play a little bondage . . . only the last rope goes around her neck.”

“We’ve been looking for a drifter,” he said quietly.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “Respectfully, I think it’s a pair. And working close to home. Brady and Hindley did little kids that way years ago. Bernardo and Homolka worked the same thing, only with teenagers, up in Canada. All those maggots had something else in common, too.”

“What?”

“They made tapes. Brady and Hindley used audio; Bernardo and Homolka, video. But they all take trophies,” I told him, thinking about the word games the oh-so-sophisticated like to play with terms like “snuff films.” No question freaks film people being killed. But if they don’t make them “for commercial purposes,” they don’t qualify, so snuff films remain an “urban legend.” How cute and clever.

“And that’s important, why?” he asked.

“Because it means they’ve got a place to stash them. Not a furnished room or a cheap motel. Probably not even an apartment. A house, my best guess.”