Chapter 38

Conley rang the bell to the townhouse. He was exhausted and wired, so strung out on caffeine that the hair on his arms stood as if electrified. He rang again. Sheila Thompson opened the door, but not the Sheila Thompson he was used to seeing. This one was casual in T-shirt and jeans, and her eyes were tired and glassy. She looked like he felt.

“I saw your light on,” he said.

She studied him and shook her head. “Looks like neither of us is getting any sleep these days.”

She waved him inside and crossed the living room. The place was a showpiece—gleaming leather couches, oil paintings, and antiques, but her desk was a different story. Printouts and photos covered the top and the hardwood floor underneath. Empty Coke cans surrounded a laptop glowing with a collage of pictures. She sat at the desk chair, handed him a cold soda, and worked the mouse.

“Let me save these files.” Her voice sounded worn and brittle. “I’m tracking chatter about Channary on Facebook and Twitter.” Windows appeared and disappeared on the laptop. Smiling faces of young girls—and older ones too, mostly Asian. The older faces were more colorful, with rouge, blush, and lipstick. And less were smiling.

Her hands flew over the keyboard. “I’m also watching Backpage and Craigslist. Reading Cambodian jokes—not funny—and a whole bunch of heartbreaking stories about other kids in trouble.ˮ

“No luck?”

“Nothing yet. Nothing but the feeling I need a shower after texting with a lot of first-class creeps. I’m out of ideas. I just wish our army was as big as the bad guys’.”

“Don’t worry, I have a tip,” he said, pulling a chair close and sitting. “Steven Pinto. Two sources confirmed him. You have access to the Sex Offenders’ Registry—SOR, right?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Pinto’s the king of the Ocean Park perverts,” he said and leaned near her to watch the screen. “He had something to do with this, I’m sure of it, but I can’t find his police file. I need an address.”

The Massachusetts State homepage came up. She clicked through menus, entered an ID and password, and searched.

“Here he is.” A mugshot of a defiant-looking man with a high forehead and stringy hair glared. His cheeks were scarred and a wisp of a goatee dirtied his chin. She traced her finger down an extensive rap sheet printed in red and black.

“You’re right, he’s got quite the resume.”

She turned to the next page, to the bottom block for home and work addresses. “You’re not going to like this, Conley. Check out Pine Grove Cemetery. He’s deceased. Died last January, complications of alcoholism. He’s not your man.”

He lowered his face into his open hands, exhaled, and clenched his fists. “They played me. I wasted three days on corroboration.” He relaxed his hands and straightened. “Prepare yourself, Sheila.” The evenness and gravity of his voice surprised him.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s been too long—15 days. You know this business. They kidnapped Channary to silence her. Chances are they already have.”

“Don’t say that,” she snapped.

The words climbed his dry throat, unstoppable. “It’s better if you prepare.”

“Enough.”

“Face it. Every day that passes reduces her chances exponentially.”

He massaged his temples with his fingertips. A buzz started inside his head, a building drone of cicadas. I don’t sleep at night. Bagpipe music keeps me awake. Little boys in black suits stand beside my bed. A widow is with them, her face hidden behind lace—and a beautiful, brown-eyed girl.

And of course Brandon. Always Brandon.

Her voice halted their crescendo.

“You left them—Kendricks and Channary—and things went terribly wrong. You can’t change that. You had to make a decision.”

“The wrong one.”

“Forget it. I know what Channary would do.”

“What?”

“Pray.”

The room became eerily quiet. The digital clock on the mantel blinked and changed to midnight.

“Right,” he said and rolled his eyes.

She folded her arms. The photo of Steven Pinto—the late Steven Pinto—flickered behind her.

“Channary believed in prayer,” she said.

Wind rattled the windows. A dog barked in the next townhouse and stopped abruptly. He stared at her long and hard before setting the can on the desktop. He laughed.

“Channary’s just a child.”

“A very precocious child. She was teaching us a lesson, Conley.”

“Wonderful. I haven’t got time for this.” He stood and stretched. A calmness came over him. The caffeine had worn off, leaving nothing but the sting of acid indigestion—and a millstone of regret. “I’m sorry. I’m just frustrated. I’m so very sorry.”

She clicked off the computer, sat back in her chair, and took a long drink. She waited a full minute before answering.

“Apology accepted, on one condition.”

He spread his arms and opened his hands.

She leaned forward and her breath smelled like sweet apples. Her face, her porcelain face, so fresh and serious, so different from the hard, made-up face at the Paladin, was all he could see.

“Don’t give up.”

The words hung in the air. Her voice was gristle and sandpaper, filled with resolve.

“Don’t get frozen, Conley. Look forward, not back. To hell with the past. Don’t sleep, don’t get frustrated, and whatever you do, don’t stop. Don’t stop until you find Channary.”

****

Samay climbed the steps to Ocean Park Police Headquarters on the first Monday in April. Cops brushed by, hurrying in and out. He averted his eyes and cursed as he prepared to carry out another dangerous task from Pon.

When would they end?

The policeman Conley was waging his own personal war on River Street. He wouldn’t find Channary there, but what else would he discover? Would one of the gang crack? Would they make a mistake and give him the answer he sought? Conley followed the gang constantly, randomly, like a lamprey on fish. He sat in his car in the courtyard at night, behind tinted windows, and his invisibility was more disturbing than his spectacle. There seemed to be an army of him—watching, following, asking questions. Worst of all, he couldn’t be bought or bullied like the other Ocean Park cops.

Madness.

Sooner or later, someone would talk because Conley’s face said he would die before giving up. When Pon gave Samay his latest mission—in the dark of night—for the first time his leader seemed to lack composure.

Samay stopped at the front desk. Glass protected a cop with heavy gray glasses who worked a computer. Behind him stood a bank of desks, mostly empty, and a solid wall of metal file cabinets. A man with hair as black as shoe polish sat at one of the cluttered desks, writing on a yellow pad, phone cradled to his ear.

Finally, the busy computer cop turned, dipped his head, and peered at Samay.

“What can I do for you?” the cop asked through silver vents in the metal circle in the glass.

“I want to talk about the girl named Channary.”

The cop adjusted his glasses. He whistled to the man on the phone and turned back to face Samay.

“You and half the city. Detective Mazzarelli will take your statement. That’s about all he does these days.”