Duncan quickly filled me in on the basics: Davey Cooper was two years old and missing. His mother, Belinda, was found dead—murdered—in their house.
“Look, Mack,” Duncan said, “I know you have some hesitations about working with me, but I could really use your help on this one. Time is of the essence. Every minute that goes by without us finding this little boy increases the likelihood that he’ll end up dead if he’s not already.”
Just in case I had any remaining reservations after learning the victim’s age and hearing Duncan’s plea, he sent a picture of Davey Cooper to my cell phone to help seal the deal. I looked down at an adorable little boy with light brown hair, huge brown eyes, thick dark lashes, and a disarming, cherubic smile.
I was being manipulated and I knew it. Unfortunately, it worked. “What can I do to help?” I asked with a sigh, putting the phone back to my ear after looking at the picture.
“I want you to come here to the house, to the scene of the murder. I know this death stuff is hard for you, and I’m not going to lie, this one is particularly gruesome. Belinda Cooper didn’t die a pleasant death.”
The thought of having to look at another dead body made my spine prickle, but after looking at the little boy’s picture, I knew I had no choice. My mind shifted into business mode and I glanced around the bar. We were doing a hopping business, but I knew the staff I had on duty could handle the place just fine for a few hours without me.
Duncan must have interpreted my silence as hesitation because he urged me along. “I have a car waiting out front to bring you here.”
“Fine, I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
I disconnected the call and glanced over at my head bartender, Billy Hughes. He was eyeing me curiously and I could tell he sensed something was up.
“I need to leave again,” I told him.
“You look like you just saw a ghost,” Billy said. “Is everything okay?”
“I don’t know. Duncan has another case he wants me to help him with. He warned me that it wasn’t going to be pleasant.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Billy asked, and I could tell he sensed my lingering reluctance. Billy’s keen ability to read people will serve him well when he launches his new career.
“A little boy is missing,” I told him. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to help, but if I can, I have to try. Do you mind taking over here while I’m gone?”
“Of course not,” Billy said.
It was just past eight in the evening and in case I didn’t get back in time to close, I asked Billy and Debra if they would mind doing it for me.
“We’re happy to help out any time,” Debra said.
“Plus, we have fun when you’re gone,” Billy added with a wink. “When the cat’s away . . .”
“You little mice have a good time,” I said. I then stepped from behind the bar and headed over to Cora’s table.
“Heading out to help Duncan?” she asked. I’m not sure how she knew, though I suspect my face must have shown the angst I felt.
“I am. Can you do me a favor?”
“Name it,” Cora said.
“Use your computer superpowers and dig up anything you can find on Belinda Cooper and her two-year-old son, Davey.”
Cora looked troubled. “Don’t tell me someone killed a child.”
“I don’t know. He’s missing. Keep it to yourself for now and if you can stay by your cell phone while I’m out, I’d appreciate it. I might need your help in interpreting my reactions.”
“No problem,” Cora said. “You know you can always call me anytime, night or day, for any reason.”
“Thanks, Cora.” My mind conjured up some faint swirls of soothing colors like the ones we had discussed earlier and I had an overwhelming urge to reach down and hug her, but I didn’t. Instead, I grabbed my coat from my office and headed out the front door. It was dark, the air felt heavy and damp, and I felt a chill that seeped through my skin all the way to my bones. I sensed there would be snow coming soon, though probably not tonight. I buttoned my coat clear to the top, unsure if the chill I felt in my bones was due to the weather or my thoughts about the situation I was heading into.
As Duncan had promised, there was a squad car waiting for me with two uniformed officers in the front seat. I knew them both by name because they had been frequenting my bar a lot in the past few weeks, both while on and off duty. On-duty cops come in for my coffee; the off-duty ones typically come in at the end of their shifts to enjoy a libation and some camaraderie. I was even considering expanding my hours of operation once I opened the new section to accommodate the night shifters. State law requires that bars be closed between the hours of two a.m. and six a.m. Monday through Friday, and two-thirty a.m. and six a.m. on Saturday and Sunday. The one exception allowed is on New Year’s Eve, when no closing is required. But first I had to find staff willing to work those early morning hours, staff I could trust enough to open the place on their own.
The two cops waiting in the squad car for me were Nick, whose Polish parents had saddled him with the name Nicodemus, and Tyrese, an African American who, unlike his partner, insisted on being called by his full first name whenever anyone tried to shorten it to Ty. They greeted me with somber nods of their heads, which I took to be an indication of just how grim the scene I was about to visit would be. I climbed into the back, which promised an uncomfortable ride given the hard plastic of the seat and the confined space. The feel of cramped quarters made me see a red number zero floating around my field of vision.
Fortunately, because of the discomfort I was experiencing, and unfortunately, because of the crime scene’s proximity to my bar, the ride was a short one. It was a little over ten minutes, despite a fair amount of traffic, before we pulled up in front of a house in the Halyard Park neighborhood. We were only a few blocks away from Duncan’s house.
While the majority of the housing directly around my bar is condos, if you go a few blocks to the north, west, or east, you’ll find yourself in one of several eclectic residential neighborhoods that contained a mix of condos and older single-family homes, as well as a mix of ethnic types. It wasn’t hard to identify the particular residence we were headed for based on all the flashing lights and police tape strung up out front. It was a smaller bungalow-style house with a one-car attached garage, similar in style to Duncan’s and, also like Duncan’s, the place was in need of some repair. The pale blue wood siding was faded to near white on the south and east sides of the house, and the paint was peeling badly. A cracked concrete sidewalk led up to a small porch with a wood-post railing, a bead-board ceiling, and a heavy, arched wooden door with a small window at the top.
Nick let me out of the car—the back doors couldn’t be opened from the inside—and he and Tyrese escorted me past the police tape to the front door. The number zero disappeared from my field of vision. As I approached the house I hesitated, and the two men seemed to sense my reluctance.
“Are you okay, Mack?” Tyrese asked, looking concerned. “I know Albright thinks you have some unique insights to offer, but maybe going in there is more than you can handle.”
“You know about my . . . how I . . .” I didn’t go on, unsure how to put my ability into words.
“Word has spread down at the precinct. Cops talk,” Nick said with a shrug.
I frowned at this. Up until now, I’d thought that only a handful of cops knew, though I suppose it was naïve of me to think that something like this would be kept secret for long. You can’t drag a lay person along to crime scenes and not raise some questions.
“Don’t worry,” Nick added. “Everyone understands that you don’t want it known publicly and we’re keeping it amongst ourselves.”
“Do cops outside this district know, too?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Tyrese said. “There’s bound to be some talk sooner or later if word gets out that you’re accompanying cops to crime scenes. But the official word from our station is simply that you’re a consultant, though most of us are calling you Albright’s secret weapon.”
I didn’t like the sound of that, or the pressure I felt it put on me. Plus, I knew there were skeptics and naysayers who disapproved of what Duncan was doing—people like Jimmy.
As if he were reading my mind, Nick said, “I don’t know exactly what it is you do, but Albright definitely believes in you, and the guy knows his stuff. If he has faith in you, so do I.”
“You’re a psychic or something like that, right?” Tyrese asked.
“Not exactly,” I told him. “Think of me more as a bloodhound, like a K-9 partner who can detect things normal humans can’t.”
“You sure as hell ain’t no dog, Mack,” Nick said. “In fact, I was wondering . . . do you and Albright have a thing between you? You know . . . a romantic thing? Are you two dating?”
Tyrese gave his partner an admonishing punch in the shoulder. “Sheesh, so not the time or the place, bro,” he chastised.
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” Nick said. “Sorry, Mack.”
“No harm done,” I said, grateful I didn’t have to answer his question about Duncan and me, since I had no idea if the two of us had a “thing,” whatever the heck that was. And I wasn’t about to admit to these two that Duncan and I had slept together. “In fact, I’m flattered. But Tyrese is right. We have more important things to focus on for the moment. So, as much as I’d rather be behind my bar right now whipping up some scrumptious hot toddy, I think we need to head inside.”