Текст книги "Blood Drive"

Автор книги: Jeanne Stein

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

Chapter Thirty-One

When I step through the mystic waterfall shielding the entrance to-whatever that was-I’m relieved to be back outside. Frey and Williams seemed very much at home in those strange surroundings. I’m much more comfortable in this one.

But I’m also struck with the painful awareness that I don’t have a plan. I hardly know more than I did when I found Trish hiding in my garage. But I do have one untapped resource. Ryan.

And the instant I think it, I realize I’ve left his number in the pocket of the jeans I was wearing yesterday. On the way back to the apartment, the fact that I seem to be going in circles, literally as well as figuratively, is frustrating enough to make me laugh out loud.

When I get off the elevator, I am greeted by a couple of burly construction types hanging my new door. I don’t see the building manager around, and I really don’t like the fact that strangers have access to my apartment. My discomfort, however, is nothing compared to the awkwardness of the two guys when they watch me approach and realize that I’m the occupant.

The guy holding the door clears his throat. Loudly.

The second guy sends a skittering glance into the apartment.

It’s at that moment I know.

I put a finger to my lips and shake my head.

They nod in comprehension, obviously bright enough to recognize it’s my favor they need to curry.

I slip inside and pause to listen. There’s a rustling of fabric, a slide of wood against wood as drawers are opened and closed.

Someone is going through my things.

I catch him in the bathroom, at my hamper. He sifts through the clothes inside, selects a pair of panties and shoves them into a pocket. His malevolent little face is scrunched up in a smile.

“You should have taken the black ones, Burdick. Pink is not your color.”

Burdick’s breath catches in his throat. His eyes squeeze shut. He reminds me of an ostrich who thinks because his head is buried, the rest of his body has disappeared, too.

I cross over to him, clucking my tongue.

He doesn’t open his eyes.

I put a hand on his shoulder. He jumps.

I take his shoulders and turn him to face me, away from the mirrors.

“But, you know, I think we can work this out.”

He grunts.

“I want to move out. This weekend. But, gee, that means I can’t give the proper notice. That won’t be a problem, though, will it?”

At that, he opens one eye and moves his head slowly from right to left. As far as I can tell, he has yet to draw a breath.

“And as for the deposit, I want it back. First and last month’s rent and my security deposit. All of it. In a check on Saturday. That’s three days from now. Think you can arrange it?”

That at last provokes a reaction. “All of it? I don’t think I can do that-”

“Of course you can, Burdick. It will be a lot less expensive than defending yourself against the charges I could bring against you for this. Especially since I have two witnesses right outside. They seem like smart guys. They aren’t going to jeopardize their own skins for you.”

He opens the other eye, his lips press into a thin line, and his brows scrunch together. “How do I know you won’t press charges anyway?”

“You don’t,” I respond cheerfully. “Guess you’ll just have to trust me.”

There’s a timid knock from outside and an anxious voice calls in, “Burdick, we’re done here. Should we wait for you?”

I answer for him. “Yeah. He’s on his way out.”

Burdick manages to gather his wits about him enough to straighten his shoulders and steady his voice as he prepares to leave. “Okay. You’ll get your check. I don’t want any trouble.” He starts to pull the panties out of his pocket.

I stop him with an upturned hand. “Keep them.” As if I could ever imagine wearing them again. There isn’t a disinfectant strong enough. “Consider them payment for the door.”

I follow him out and close and deadbolt the door with a decisive click. When I’m alone, I realize my hands are shaking.

How many assholes am I going to have to deal with in my immortal life? How many monsters like the creeps who hurt Trish, and how many insignificant insects like Burdick? Is this what I have to look forward to for all eternity?

I return to the bathroom to splash water on my face. The towel I grab to dry off has a scent clinging to it-Max’s. I bring it to my face and inhale. It’s a reminder that there are good men out there.

Good men .

Another complication I can’t face right now.

My jeans are in a pile on the living room floor. I fish Ryan’s number out of the pocket. The idea that Burdick might have touched them, too, or the underwear tucked inside when I pulled them off, makes me cringe. But hopefully he wouldn’t have been depraved enough to touch things in full view of his workman.

I can only hope.

To be on the safe side, I handle the jeans with two fingers and dump them into the hamper. Maybe I should burn them.

Then I focus on the number, written in precise, uniform numerals. The stamp of a budding engineer. I dial it and he picks up on the first ring.

“Where is she?” he demands in a rough whisper.

“Why are you whispering?”

I can hear his teeth grind. “I’m in class. We aren’t supposed to have our cell phones on. Tell me. What have you done with Trish?”

I glance at my watch. I never gave a thought to the time. “When is school over?”

“In about an hour. Damn it. Where is Trish?”

“What school?”

There is a voice in the background calling Ryan’s name impatiently. He snaps back at me, “Mission Bay High.”

“I’ll be out front. Look for a red Jag.”

He doesn’t have a chance to answer. The connection is cut, probably by some angry teacher. Hopefully, I didn’t get him into too much trouble. How am I going to convince him that Trish is safe and that it’s in her best interest to give me that computer? He certainly isn’t easily frightened or intimidated-not by me anyway.

I blow out a lungful of air, trying to expel the negative energy that darkens my mood. I look around the apartment. At least I’ll be getting out of here. That triggers the thought that I never did get around to having my furniture delivered. That number is in my purse, and after calling the store and arranging delivery on Saturday, I actually feel a little better. Saturday. Three days from now. I’ll be moving back into my own place. The DNA test results will be back and I’ll find out just how good Sorrel is.

Three days.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Mission Bay High School is located on

Grand Avenue

, one of the busiest thoroughfares in San Diego. When it was built, however, it wasn’t so busy. MBH is one of the oldest schools in the county and it looks it. The buildings are sun bleached and badly in need of paint. The meager landscaping shows signs of giving in to the constant onslaught of salt air and the annual pounding of seventeen hundred pair of student feet. The grass is brown, and a few scruffy bushes cling to life. But the school has a surfing team and that makes it one of the most popular among teens and assures parental support.

I pull up about fifteen minutes before the end of the school day and Ryan is already at the curb, pacing and frowning with the intensity of a pit bull. He barely lets me come to a stop before he yanks open the door and jumps in.

“Let’s go,” he says in tight voice.

I look pointedly at my watch. “I thought school wasn’t over for another fifteen minutes.”

“It’s over for me. Has been since you called. Now take me to Trish.”

His face is so implacably hostile it almost trips an outburst of my own temper-until I remind myself that this is the kid who helped Trish and protected her when she had no one else. He deserves some respect for that.

Act like an adult, I tell myself. Say something meaningful.

I turn in the seat to face him. “Would you like to get something to eat?”

“Are you crazy? I want to see Trish. If you don’t take me to her, I’ll jump out of this car and start yelling that you are trying to molest me. I can be very persuasive. Do you want to see?”

His response is explosive and full of rage. But under the rage blazes fear. He’s scared to death for Trish. And he now sees me as the enemy-another adult out to take advantage of her.

I hold up a hand. “Ryan, listen to me. Trish is all right. She’s safe. I’m sorry I can’t take you to her. You must have heard what happened to her mother. The police are looking for Trish. They think she’s involved. We had to take her to a place where no one can find her.”

“We?”

“Mr. Frey and me.”

Ryan’s expression is a mask of dark skepticism. “You told me I’d be able to talk to her. Mr. Frey never answers his phone anymore. And if Trish was really all right, she’d call me. I think you’re lying.”

His voice shakes a little at the end, as if he’s fighting tears. He has turned his face away from me so I won’t see if he loses the battle.

I place a hand on his arm. His whole body stiffens, but he doesn’t jerk away. I take that as a good sign. “Let me tell you why I came to you. I have a friend in the police department. He knows where Trish is and he’s not going to tell anyone. He’s giving us a chance to help her.”

His eyes narrow and slide toward mine. “Us?”

“Yes. You and me. We have to figure out who hurt Trish. I know they are behind what’s happened to Barbara and to Trish’s mother. If we can do that, we will go to the police with the information. The police will believe it when they see the videos from the computer.”

A spark of suspicion flares in his eyes. “I won’t turn it over to anybody. It’s the only proof we have that those men did what they did to Trish.”

“I’m not asking you to. At least not yet. But, Ryan, the police have experts who might be able to trace where the videos come from. Or to identify the men in the pictures.”

He shakes his head. “You never see a face.” His voice cracks again. “Only hands.”

A woman pulls beside me and rolls down her window. “Can you move your car?” she huffs. “You are in a loading zone.”

For the first time I notice that school has let out, and the line of cars forming with parents here to pick up their kids is backing up traffic on the busy street. I smile an apologetic smile and start the car.

“Are your folks expecting you home right away?” I ask Ryan when we’re back on the road.

He shakes his head. “They’ll be at work until six or so.”

“Is the computer at home?”

“Do you think I’m that stupid?”

Anger again. I guess that’s better than fear. I eye the backpack he has clutched between both hands. “Okay. I take it that means you have it with you. I want to see the videos. Maybe I can catch something you didn’t. Do you want to go back to my place at the beach?”

“Will we be alone? I don’t want anyone else to see this. At least not yet.”

I nod. “We’ll be alone.”

“Okay. But I won’t let you touch it. It took me hours to fix it after the last time.”

I agree with a bob of my head. “If we can’t identify anyone from the video, maybe we can find out where it’s broadcast from. I heard once that if you determine that, there’s a way to backtrack-”

“By cross referencing with a cell tower location to get the ESN.” Ryan finishes with a flourish of his right hand. “I know that. The only problem is that we need someone with access to telephone company records.”

It’s my turn to shoot him a sideways glance. “I know someone who can get those records for us.”

He doesn’t ask whom. “Then we’ve got them,” he says. “Because I know where the videos are broadcast from.”

“You do? Where?”

“From Trish’s house.”

“Are you sure?”

Ryan nods. “Trish told me the guys would make the videos and send them out to a website. They get sold on the Internet through a site called ”With Sexual Freedom For All.“ Catchy name, huh? They claim the videos come from overseas and the ”actors“ are all over eighteen. Since it’s not a big operation, and there’s no violent stuff, no one has ever bothered to check.”

“You know a lot about this.”

He sniffs. “I learned. I’ve been trying to hack into the telephone company myself. I’m good, but not that good yet. And I’ve had to be careful so I wouldn’t get caught. But if you know someone who has access to the records, we can track down who owns the computer.”

For the first time, his voice has a touch of hopeful optimism. He’s quiet for a minute, and then he asks softly, “Is Trish really all right? How did she take the news of her mom’s death? It’s been all over the TV.”

And that reminds me of the news conference Carolyn’s mother has scheduled for this afternoon. I glance at my watch. “Trish is fine, but, Ryan, we’re going back to my apartment. Trish’s grandmother is holding a news conference in about fifteen minutes. I don’t want to miss it.”

I hang a U-turn and head downtown. It’s tight, but we manage to make it to the apartment with five minutes to spare. I try to prepare Ryan for what he’s likely to hear. But I suspect his natural, youthful skepticism isn’t deep-seated enough to accept that Trish’s grandmother could possibly believe her capable of murder.

Mrs. Bernard’s television persona is quite different than the one she presented to Detective Harris and me. Her face is composed but drawn in a frown of anxious concern. She’s wearing a quiet dark suit, an open-collared cream blouse, and a pearl necklace at her throat. She’s alone at the microphone, although there is someone standing behind her and to the left. If I had to guess, I’d bet the guy is her lawyer. He looks the part with carefully slicked back hair and an expensive suit. We missed any introduction and tune in just as she starts to speak.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice. I appreciate the Mayor allowing me this forum. This is a very sad day for my family. My daughter, Carolyn Delaney, was viciously murdered last night. She led a troubled life, but she had a pure, sweet spirit. That spirit allowed her to be taken advantage of. I believe it led to her death. Her daughter, Trish Delaney, is only thirteen. But, unlike her mother, she is a hard, desperate soul. Carolyn, as a single mother determined to make it on her own, did the best she could to raise Trish. She refused help from us, her parents. She put herself through school and became a nurse. She wanted to give Trish the kind of life any child deserves. But some children cannot or will not respond to the most basic parent-child relationship. Trish ran away, got involved in drugs, and now, this.”

Her voice falters. She pauses, recomposes herself, and continues. “You will never know how it breaks my heart to come before you and admit that I believe my own granddaughter had a part in her mother’s death. But sorrowfully, I do. And the plea I’m making now is to you, Trish. Please, please give yourself up. You need help. We, your family, will see that you get it. Come forward. Don’t let the nightmare drag on.”

She steps back from the microphone and the man behind her comes to the front, holding up a hand to stem the barrage of questions hurled at them from the reporters gathered below. “Mrs. Bernard will not take questions at this time. You have copies of the prepared remarks. Thank you for your time.”

Then the two of them are hustled back up the steps by uniformed policemen and into the City Administration Building. I snap off the television and turn to Ryan.

His face is so blighted with disbelief that it breaks my heart. “She thinks Trish did it? What kind of grandmother would say things like that?”

I could answer that question for Ryan, but calling her a “fucking bitch” doesn’t seem appropriate. Instead, I roll my shoulders and exercise a modicum of adult restraint.

“She’s not a very nice lady, Ryan. We can’t do anything about that. What we can do is find out who that computer belongs to and get those men. You and I both know they are the ones who killed Carolyn and probably Barbara Franco.”

I don’t add the possibility that Barbara’s death might have been caught on film. The FBI’s allegations that it could have been offered as a snuff film is something I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around. I can’t imagine how it would affect Ryan.

His jaw sets. “But what will happen to Trish? She can’t be made to go live with that woman, can she? There has to be somebody else who can help her.”

There is. But I can’t tell Ryan yet. I have to have those DNA tests for my family to legally make a claim for Trish’s guardianship. In my heart, though, it gives me a little peace to know we will be able to protect Trish from her grandmother. I also realize I’ve accepted what Sorrel told me.

She’d better be right.

So, unable to share any of that, I point to the backpack. “First things first, Ryan. Let me see those files. Maybe I can catch something you didn’t.”

He looks skeptical at that, but he doesn’t voice any objection. He pulls the laptop out of his backpack and sets it up on the coffee table in front of the couch. He cues it up and swivels it around to face me.

“I can’t watch this again. There are ten files. Each was released and sold separately. The first one is the most recent. They are in reverse chronological order. Hit ‘enter’ to start and hit the ‘next’ icon on the bottom of the screen to go from one to the other.” He throws me a narrowed eye look of warning. “Just those buttons. Nothing else.”

His tone is dry and detached, but his face betrays grim condemnation. I scour my head for something to offer him as a distraction while I go through the files. “Would you like to watch television?” It’s the only thing I can come up with.

He shakes his head. “No. I have homework. I can do that. I would like a drink, though.”

“Great. There’s Coke in the fridge. Help yourself.” I jab a thumb in the direction of the kitchen.

He disappears while I steel myself to start the most despicable chore I have ever had to face. Before I can bring myself to hit the key, though, he’s back. He has a can in his hand and a frown on his face.

“You don’t have any food in there. Don’t you ever eat?”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Ryan accepts the explanation that I haven’t any food in the house because I eat out. A lot. It’s a light moment in what I expect to be a very dark afternoon. He settles himself into a chair and pulls a textbook, a battered notebook and a well-chewed pencil out of his backpack. In a moment, he’s mercifully lost in his homework and I force myself to begin my own.

Ryan said the files were in reverse chronological order. I hit the button and the picture snaps into focus. They’ve been taken with a digital camera and the sound quality is not very good. But the pictures don’t need sound.

Trish is on the bed. She’s alone, dressed only in underpants. Plain white underpants that look painfully youthful and innocent against her pale skin. She’s looking toward the end of the bed. Then, a man’s voice directs her to “touch herself.” Her face reddens, but she slips one hand between her legs, and her panties bunch around her hand. Her fingers move against the fabric, and her skin flushes. As she brings herself to a climax, her legs draw toward her chest and her breath becomes shallow and quick.

The man’s voice again, “Oh-oh. Daddy’s home. What did daddy say happens to little girls who touch themselves?”

Trish’s eyes grow big. She’s watching someone approach from the side of the bed. He lifts her, bends her over his knees, and lowers her panties. He applies the palm of his hand to her naked bottom. He spanks her until Trish is kicking her legs and sobbing. Then he stops.

The voice again.“Naughty girl. But now Daddy will kiss it and make it all better.”

Trish is spread-eagled face down on the bed. A man’s head appears and he licks her until she stops crying. Then she’s rolled over and he uses his fingers to bring her to another climax. This time there are no panties in the way. Trish’s face is red with humiliation. She can no more control her physical reaction to the sexual manipulation than she can control her breathing. But the guilt she feels is stamped on her tear-streaked face.

I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath until the picture fades into blackout. My hands are bunched into fists at my side. Ryan’s voice makes me jump.

“It’s pretty awful, isn’t it?”

He’s been watching me and I didn’t realize it. I can’t bring myself to look at him.

“It’s worse than awful.” I lower the screen on the laptop. “I’m not sure I can watch anymore.”

He heaves a deep sigh. “That last one is the worst. It’s the reason Trish decided she had to leave. That spanking stuff? It was the first time they did that. The guy hurt her. She knew it wasn’t going to get better.”

I press the palms of my hands against my eyes. “And Carolyn was there?”

He nods. “Trish said she laughed.”

I nearly choke on the fury that’s rising in my throat. What happened to Carolyn wasn’t nearly bad enough. Ryan’s calm, watchful eyes bring me back. He expects me to do something about this. I know I have to watch the video again. I was so drawn in by the horror of what was being done to Trish that I neglected to focus in on the monster who was doing it.

“I have to watch it again. To see if there is anything we can use to identify the guy who hurt Trish.”

Ryan rolls his shoulders. “There won’t be. I’ve looked at it a hundred times. He makes sure his face is always off camera.”

I suspect he’s right. But I reopen the laptop and let the video repeat. This time I concentrate on the scenes with the man. When he first appears to lift Trish off the bed, the camera is kept waist high. He’s wearing jeans and a’t-shirt tucked into a leather belt. His hands are large, his arms tanned and well developed. No tattoos. No scars. He isn’t wearing any jewelry, either, no rings or watch.

When he lays Trish back down on the bed, only the back of his head is visible. His hair is dark brown, long, almost shoulder length, hiding his neck and shoulders. It doesn’t move naturally and it only takes an instant to recognize that it’s a wig. It falls down around his face so that not even a profile is caught on the tape.

I let the video play out, and then I sink back on the couch.

The guy was smart. It would be nearly impossible to make any kind of identification from what I saw. His clothes, jeans, blue’t-shirt, leather belt. Nothing distinctive.

I feel Ryan looking at me again. “I was right, wasn’t I?”

“You’d make a good detective. It’s the same way in the others?”

“Yes. The guys take turns, though, so maybe you’d better watch one of the others. Just to make sure.”

I’m not sure I have the stomach for it, but I know Ryan is right. I cue up the next most recent video and let it play out. This time Trish is dressed in a school uniform, short pleated skirt, white blouse, loafers. The voice directing her is younger, gruffer, and when the “teacher” enters the room, you see a white long-sleeved shirt tucked into unbelted slacks. Again, no jewelry is visible. The “teacher” directs Trish to sit down on the edge of the bed and lifts her skirt. She is naked underneath. He proceeds with the “lesson.” But after he has finished with her, he unzips his pants, and Trish is directed to touch him. He tries, once, to get her to take him into her mouth, but she refuses and he doesn’t press it. Instead, he folds his hands around hers and helps her stroke him to climax. The last frame is cum squirting over the front of Trish’s uniform.

I’m physically ill.

I close the laptop and try to concentrate on something else until the nausea passes. I sort through what I know. The two videos I saw were twenty minutes long. There are ten of them. Trish ran away after they started to get rough. I found her on Tuesday.

“Ryan, what day did Trish run away?”

He puts his book down and rejoins me on the couch. “She left on Sunday. She wanted to be gone before her mother came home from work early Monday. The men always came on Monday afternoon, after school.”

“They came once a week?”

He nods.

So Trish has had to endure this for almost three months. “Ryan, do you know how Trish came to know about me? She mentioned that she overheard her mother talking about me. Do you know who she was talking to? Was it the guys who made the video?”

Ryan shrugs. “I’m not sure.”

“Well, did Trish ever mention how her mother came to know them? Did she meet them at the hospital?”

Again, the shoulders roll, and his brow wrinkles with concentration. “I don’t know. Maybe. I know it started not too long after Carolyn’s last boyfriend left. Her mother was having trouble at work. I think she was worried she would lose her job. But after Trish started doing those-things-her mother didn’t seem so worried anymore. And she didn’t have to work as much. She only went in two or three times a week.”

A knock at the front door startles us both. I glance over at Ryan and he’s watching me, a look of concern on his face.

I motion toward the laptop. “Take your things into the bedroom. I’ll see who it is.”

He gathers up the computer, his books and backpack and disappears through the door without a word. I look through the peephole and see two familiar faces. With a frown, I pull open the door.

“Well, Agents Bradley and Donovan. What a surprise.”

Bradley is eyeing the unpainted front door. “What happened to your door?”

I don’t answer so he does it for me. “You have a little trouble? Throw someone through it maybe? I can’t figure out how you pulled that stunt with us at Frey’s, but I’m working on it.”

I flex my right arm. “I’m stronger than I look.”

He snickers and he and Donovan push past me.

“I don’t remember inviting you in,” I say.

Bradley smoothes his tie with the palm of his hand.“Really? Cause I could have sworn I heard you say come in. Eric, you heard it too, didn’t you?”

Donovan smiles and hitches up his pants. “Yep. I heard it plain as day.”

Bradley looks around the apartment. “Not much here. You a minimalist, Ms. Strong?”

My back teeth grind together in aggravation, but I manage to smile. “Why are you here? Can’t be to get decorating tips. Anybody who dresses as spiffy as you two wouldn’t need them.”

They both force grins and again, with no invitation from me, lower themselves onto the couch.

“Sure,” I snap. “Have a seat, why don’t you?”

I, however, refuse to give them the impression that I expect their stay to be anything but short. I cross my arms and peer down at them. “What do you want?”

Bradley crosses one leg over the other and leans back. “Your boyfriend seems to have pulled a disappearing act. He hasn’t gone back to his condo and he’s not at school.” He glances around the apartment. “He’s not here, is he?”

“Boyfriend?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Daniel Frey.”

“Oh.”

Donovan takes up the refrain. “Well, is he here?”

“No.”

“So, if I was to take a stroll into your bedroom, I wouldn’t find him. Is that what you’re telling me?”

“I’m telling you that if you were to take a stroll into my bedroom, I’d bring charges against you for unlawful search. Then I’d sue both your asses for harassment.”

Bradley’s posture stiffens, the playful mannerisms drop. “You are not helping yourself, Ms. Strong.”

“I didn’t know I needed help, Mr. Bradley.”

The two exchange the same kind of meaningful look they exchanged in Williams’s office a few hours ago. Donovan gives his head a shake and turns to look up at me.

“Do you have any idea what he’s involved in?”

When I don’t respond, he continues. “Do you know how many kids are victims of sexual exploitation every year? How many are raped, sodomized, forced into prostitution, beaten, strangled, and shot? We find their bodies in garbage cans and alleyways, on the bottoms of lakes and rivers, and in the middle of nowhere. Like the place they found Barbara Franco. Daniel Frey is a monster. And he has access to children everyday. He has to be stopped. Your mother is a school principal, for god’s sake. I can’t believe you wouldn’t want to help us bring him to justice.”

I think of what I just saw on Ryan’s computer. No one wants to get the men who did that to Trish more than I do. And if they are also responsible for Barbara’s death, I want them to pay for that, too.

But Daniel Frey is not the monster. I look into Donovan’s face and know there is nothing I can say to convince him or his partner. The only way I will ever do that is to find those responsible myself.

The silence lengthens between the three of us, broken finally when Bradley hauls himself to his feet. “We haven’t made an impression on you, have we, Ms. Strong?”

Donovan rises, too, but pauses for a parting shot. His curt tone rakes me with contempt. “If we find out that you harbor the slightest suspicion that we are right about Frey and you don’t help us, we’ll arrest you as an accessory. And just so I’m clear, that is an accessory to child endangerment, aggravated assault, pimping a child, and murder.” He watches as his partner starts for the door.

“Better think about that.” He takes a business card out of the pocket of his jacket and flips it onto the coffee table in front of the couch. “By the time you get out of jail, you’ll be an old lady.”

Well, not quite.

I watch the two of them let themselves out the same way they let themselves in. If I thought for one minute telling them about Carolyn or giving them the videos would change their minds about Frey, I’d call them back. But the videos don’t prove a thing. They have it in their heads that Frey is behind the ring and the only way I’m going to fix that is to produce the ones who are.