Monday dawn broke cold, gray, and miserable. Petrosky sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the half-full bottle of Jack. His head swam, not as badly as yesterday morning, but enough to make him wish for another hour or thirty of sleep.
Get it together, Petrosky. But he couldn’t. He would be the same piece of shit he’d been yesterday, fumbling around and asking questions while Morrison wrote because they both knew he wasn’t steady enough to write legibly.
Fuck.
They’d hit four more houses the night before, but found nothing—no notes, no one else who’d seen the boyfriend. Hopefully the note from Ava Fenderson’s bedroom had already been processed by forensics.
They needed something to go on.
Petrosky’s brain tried to pound through his skull. He stood, but dizziness forced him down again.
Why hadn’t he registered the CDs as an important clue? Ava hadn’t even had a CD player in her room; Norton had probably snagged the whole box at Goodwill for five bucks. At least their killer was as tech-challenged as Petrosky was.
But still—he should have caught that. He needed to do better. Morrison and Shannon and Evie and Henry … If not for them, maybe he’d have given up completely by now.
The bottle winked at him, practically screaming “Drink me.” He didn’t believe in signs; they were for new age hippies and guys like Morrison.
But that tiny glint on his Jack—that was definitely a sign.
Petrosky grabbed the bottle by the neck, throttling it the way he wanted to throttle the asshole who abducted little girls and turned them into his own personal harem, or maybe the way he wanted to throttle himself. The guilt, the grief—they never ended. Never would.
Petrosky cracked the cap and put the bottle to his lips. The fire burned its way into his stomach and his gut clenched, tried to refuse the liquor, then relented. Good. The booze would surely settle better than granola. And today he had a job to do—he had to try, no matter how inept he might be.
Morrison appraised him when he jumped into Petrosky’s car at the station, but the kid said nothing. Petrosky pulled another breath mint from the pack in the dashboard and popped it into his mouth. Morrison stared at that too, then opened his manila folder. “Got the composite from Fenderson,” he said.
“Not tired of your classifieds yet, eh, Cali?”
Morrison pulled out the picture and smiled. “Nope. Keeps me organized. Unlike you, who probably doesn’t even know who we’re going to see right now.”
“That’s why I have you, Surfer Boy.” Petrosky glanced at the new composite of Norton. A hat covered his head, but blond hair stuck out at the base. Thin, blond goatee, scraggly, like the stippling of scars along his jaw had damaged his hair follicles. The scars were probably what Norton was trying to hide with the facial hair in the first place. And below the neck, broad shoulders, far larger than what Petrosky remembered. This time, Norton would be harder to take down.
“So who are we going to see?” Petrosky asked as Morrison replaced the sketch.
“Kim Nace, the mother of Margot Nace, who disappeared just over a year ago—most recent potential abductee I found. She was thirteen. Last seen by her mother during an argument over an older boyfriend. Margot snuck out that night, never came home.”
“Mom know we’re coming?”
“Yeah, I called her last night. Followed up on a few others, too—crossed a couple more potential kidnapping vics off the list. I also visited the family of Casey Hearn on the way home, but there was nothing there. They’d moved to a smaller house, and all her things had been purged except for a few boxes of toys and clothes. And her parents didn’t meet her boyfriend, though they suspected he was an older boy from another school.”
“You went alone in the middle of the—”
“Mr. Hearn works during the day. He said that was the best time. And the other families we can see today.”
“Don’t get cocky on me, California.”
“Not a chance, Boss. Just trying to be efficient.”
Petrosky grabbed the coffee from the cupholder and took a deep swallow. His hand was steady for once. “I thought you were going home to Shannon when I dropped you off last night.”
“I did, just later.” Morrison eyed the cup as Petrosky put the coffee back. “She understood; she wants this guy behind bars as much as we do.”
The whiskey and coffee rolled in Petrosky’s stomach, a thick, burbling liquid, but his head was clear. “I know she does, but she needs to be important too. So does Evie. And Henry.” Then Julie was begging him to come see her in the talent show—Please, Daddy, please?—and he felt like he was drowning in a deep, dark void. Against the small of his back, his gun was heavy and cold, and held more promise in that moment than he wanted to admit. He pushed at the thought. It pushed back.
Focus. He’d find Ava. He’d put Adam Norton away. Then maybe he could drift off into the big sleep more peacefully knowing Shannon and the kids would be safe from this maniac.
Nace lived in a trailer park, ten miles from the Salomon place. Pockets of snow and rivulets of hardened ice cleaved through the dirt in the walk. A curtain snapped and billowed in an open window, like Nace was trying to get rid of the smell of weed—or something harder—before the cops arrived.
A woman opened the door, sporting orange curls so bright they looked like a frizzy clown wig even with the white streaks at her temples. But her face was sallow, the gray of dirty dishwater, and her eyes were bleary, dull, and stupid. Drugs? Booze?
Do I look like that?
“Ms. Nace?” Morrison said.
She nodded, mouth slack.
“I’m Detective Morrison, and this is Detective Petrosky. We spoke last night.”
She stared.
“About Margot?”
She backed up. Petrosky thought she might slam the door in their faces, but then the screen door squealed open and she gestured for them to come in.
Inside the trailer, the surfaces sparkled. Hand towels in the kitchen hung neatly over the oven door handle. No lingering marijuana smoke like he’d expected, nor the burning-plastic stench of crack cocaine—just the breeze from outside, whipping against the blue walls. You never really knew about a person.
A school photo of Margot had been tacked above the love seat. She had an unfortunate face, the kind that will always be dowdy even through pancake makeup. Maybe she was compensating for that with her low-cut tank top and a bra that pushed her cleavage together in a porn-star way. Had Morrison said … thirteen? He wanted to give the girl a jacket, tell her to cover up, tell her his own face was a shitshow but that didn’t mean he had to show everyone his balls. But then the wind whipped through the room again and the photo sighed in the breeze as if it were alive.
Petrosky winced.
“Sit?” Nace asked.
Petrosky looked at the love seat, at the table. No other chairs. “We’ll stand, ma’am.” Petrosky said.
“Drink?”
“No thanks,” they said in unison. He hoped they didn’t start moving their heads in unison like the Fendersons, though he supposed that happened in families sometimes. Or … with partners.
Morrison whipped out his notebook, but Petrosky motioned to him. Give it to me. For once his hand was steady, and he didn’t trust his voice—his lungs and throat felt suddenly tighter, like he was coming down with a cold. Or the plague.
Morrison raised an eyebrow but handed the notepad over and turned to Nace. “As I mentioned yesterday, we’re looking for the man who was seen with your daughter last year.”
Ms. Nace said nothing, just sank back farther into the couch.
Come on, lady.
“We know you’re aware that your daughter was seeing an older boy.”
Slow nod.
“You argued with her the night she ran away?”
Another nod.
Morrison glanced at Petrosky.
Petrosky slapped the folder against his palm. “Wake up, ma’am. We don’t care what you’re on, but you need to cooperate with us so we can find this asshole. If you can’t do it here, we’ll take you to the station until you sober up and we can get what we need.”
Her vacant eyes cleared incrementally, as if finally realizing where she was. She swallowed hard. “I’m not … on anything. I’m just … I can never sleep. Can’t go outside.” She shuddered. “I keep thinking I’ll walk past a street and she’ll be lying there and … sorry.” She inhaled sharply, blew it out. “I never met him—never even saw the man, but I knew he was older than she was by the way she talked about him. Said he didn’t go to school, so I thought he’d graduated already. I told her it was a bad idea, but …”
Of course it was a bad fucking idea. But predators knew which girls to target. Wasn’t even the clothes, the push-up bras and the short skirts. It was in the eyes—an unspoken vulnerability.
“Any phone calls to the house?” Morrison asked.
“We never had a phone. She was always mad about that, but it was a luxury I couldn’t afford.”
Morrison pulled out the photo and showed it to her. “Does this man look familiar?”
She squinted, shook her head. Then her eyes widened, brightened, finally alive—and furious. “Is that him? The guy you think took her?” she said, each word louder than the last.
Nothing like rage to wake a motherfucker up.
Morrison put the photo away. “We’re not sure yet. What did Margot tell you about the man she was seeing?”
“Not much; I found out most of it the night she left. She’d wanted to go to the movies, and I asked who she was going with. She was only thirteen, not like she was ready to date no matter what she thought with all her short shorts and …” She blew orange frizz from her cheek. It lifted and settled back onto her face. “Anyway, she said he was nice but that he didn’t go to her school, didn’t go to any school, which made me wonder. And she had this necklace, like a heart kinda thing? At first I thought it was from her school, maybe for winning a contest. It seemed too nice for that, but she had been cutting classes, messing up on tests, and I guess I was … hoping it was from school, hoping that things were changing for her.”
Were necklaces a normal prize at schools these days? Morrison’s brows were furrowed over narrowed eyes. “Why would you think her necklace was for a school contest?”
“Well, she always did well in school.” Her chest puffed up, then deflated just as quickly. “I mean, before. It was more the engraving: First Place.”
Petrosky’s heart jolted, sending a bolt of painful electricity into his jaw. Great. His whole goddamn body was falling apart.
“Did it say first place or was it just a number one?” Morrison said, quietly, slowly.
“The number, but with the number sign.”
So Margot Nace had gotten the necklace from Norton. Petrosky thought back to Dr. McCallum’s psychological profile—the doctor had been concerned that their perp was escalating, that he had learned from the predators he’d been hanging out with.
And Norton had. Now he was grooming his victims, finessing them until they came to him willingly. No abduction necessary if they called you after a fight with their mother. No fuss in the street. And what a rush for his self-worth, to finally have women—no, girls—who wouldn't reject his sorry ass. Norton had been getting cocky, too, showing his face in public—like the fucking library.
Then going home to a torture chamber Petrosky hadn't found.
Yet.
“Do you have the necklace here?” Morrison was saying.
Petrosky gritted his teeth against the pressure in his chest.
“No, she took it when she …” She shuddered, though the wind had stopped blowing. Margot’s photo was still.
“Can you describe it? Color, size?”
She put her fingers in an “okay” sign, the hole about the size of a quarter. “‘About this big, silver. On a silver chain. Hung to here.” She touched the center of her clavicle.
“Would you recognize it if you saw it again?” Petrosky asked. They’d check out local jewelers. How many people were engraving the number one on a charm? And though the charms probably weren’t expensive, to purchase jewelry for each girl took a little bit of cash—looked like Janice was telling the truth about him having his own money unless he’d found some other woman to mooch off of.
“Yeah, I think so.” She locked her gaze on Morrison. “You think you’ll … find her? I mean … alive?”
Morrison looked away, probably envisioning the alley and Lisa Walsh’s body. Maybe seeing Shannon’s sutured mouth. “I’m not sure, ma’am, but we hope so.”
She sighed. “Now I wish I would have kept her things. Not that she’d still fit in the clothes, but …” Her eyes filled. “Maybe she’ll come home. Maybe then I’ll finally be able to sleep.”
It was a pipe dream, but if their guy had Margot and was keeping her for a purpose … maybe she was alive. For now. Norton had kept Lisa Walsh alive for years, before she’d done something to piss him off. Same with Ava Fenderson—probably. But if Norton’s blatant display with Salomon and Walsh was any indication, they’d know when he killed again.
Petrosky rubbed his aching jaw and flipped the notebook closed as Morrison handed Nace a card. “If you think of anything else, ma’am, please call.”
“You all right, old man?” Morrison asked on their way to the car. “You’re looking a little pale.”
“I’m fine.” He wasn’t fine. He needed more Jack. “You drive, California.”
The rest of the afternoon was a bust, with no other leads. One father eyed them suspiciously over the head of his infant daughter as if they’d come to bring up a past he’d tried to forget. The man had nothing to offer besides insisting his daughter had been using drugs and that he had warned her about trouble. He didn’t seem particularly surprised or upset that she was still missing.
The father in Petrosky wanted to punch the fucker. The cop in him figured the man was probably right to assume his daughter was dead of a drug overdose somewhere and that shutting off the pain was the best choice. He’d certainly wished for numbness after Julie’s death, and when it hadn’t come, he’d found it at the bottom of a bottle.
Not much had changed.
Morrison pulled into a Thai place at two o’clock. Their table was in the middle of the restaurant next to a long, algae-infested tank where an enormous goldfish stared at them with the boggle eyes of a tweaker.
Petrosky wondered if the goldfish were like the lobsters in a grocery store tank, if someone would be by shortly to turn the googly-eyed bastard into sushi.
He frowned at the fish. “You sure about this place?”
“You talking to me or to the fish?”
Petrosky turned back in time to see Morrison raise an eyebrow at his shaking hand. He put it under the table where it could tremble on his knee with a little privacy. Stupid dumbass fish—he was just hungry, that was all.
They ordered from an Asian kid who looked twelve but probably wasn’t, with straight black hair cut in a bowl over cheekbones and a chin sharp enough to slice glass. Three minutes of confusion between Petrosky and the kid over which soup would be the most like chicken noodle, then Morrison ordered for both of them. The kid scampered away.
Petrosky trapped his still trembling hands between his knees, keeping his eyes away from Morrison’s face and the bastards in the tank. He needed to think. Not a goddamn thing had come from the press’ involvement—goddamn waste of time. And time they did not have. Finally, he said, “After lunch, let’s check out the jewelry stores. He had to get that necklace engraved somewhere.”
Morrison nodded as the Asian kid returned with a teapot. When the kid left again, Morrison whipped out his phone. “I’ll make a list now.” He took a sip of something that was supposed to be green tea but looked an awful lot like piss.
Petrosky grimaced at it. “We can print a list at the station.”
“This is way faster.” He was already tapping on his phone. “And we don’t have to waste the trip.”
Petrosky sipped his water. Some asshole had put lemon in it. He set it back down.
“Holy cow, there are tons of jewelers.” Morrison tapped frantically on the face of the phone with his index finger—how the hell was one-fingered typing more efficient than a fucking keyboard? “Hang on, let me see if I can look up the engraving bit. The nicer ones will do it, but some stores might not. Plus, it looks like a few of these are pawn shops which might not have the same equipment.”
Petrosky stared at the goldfish until his middle school waiter put a bowl in front of him. Green pieces floated in a clear-ish broth. He took a spoonful. It tasted like lime … and something sort of like chicken. Pretty tasty, actually, but his stomach clenched. He choked down another bite.
“How many miles you want to go out to start? If we do ten we can always expand.”
“Fine.”
Morrison tapped a few more buttons, set his phone aside, and grabbed his fork. He gestured to Petrosky’s dish. “Good, eh?”
“Just fucking delightful.” Petrosky’s phone chimed. He pulled it out of his jacket. “You texted me?”
“In case you wanted the list of where we were going.”
“I’m going with you in ten minutes, California—”
“Just being thorough.”
Petrosky shook his head, picked up the bowl and slurped the remaining soup before he could change his mind.