99 Souls Page 10

  Mike slowly stood up. “Panic attack.”

  The officer rolled his eyes. He firmly gripped Mike’s arm. With a tug, he had Mike moving toward the police car. “I’m going to need you to come downtown with us.”

  “But that’s not my plate.”

  “I’m sure the detectives will get that straightened out in no time.” The officer put Mike in the backseat. He got behind the wheel and started the engine.

  “I have appointments today,” Mike pleaded.

  “You’ll have to reschedule.”

  Reschedule? He could barely conceive of the idea. Clients did it to him all the time, but he never rescheduled.

  The cruiser pulled out into traffic. Mike anxiously watched his Honda fade into the distance. “What about my car?”

  The officers didn’t answer.

  BY THE TIME MARK HAMMOND arrived at headquarters, Mike Pallow had already been moved to Interrogation Room Three. He found Les in the adjacent observation area, dressed to the nines. Hair perfect. Makeup perfect. Always perfect.

  As if to balance out her attire, he’d arrived in a wrinkled dress shirt and day-old pants and stank of stale cigarettes.

  With cinderblock walls and tile floors, the observation area could be described as minimalistic, at best. Six monitors in rows of three hung on the east wall. Les sat in a fold-out metal chair close to the door and looked from the monitors to him. She sniffed the air. “I thought you quit.”

  He closed the door. “I did. It didn’t take. What’ve we got?”

  On one of the monitors they could see Mike sitting nervously at a wooden table with a brown paper bag crumpled in one hand. The other five were off.

  “He was arrested this—”

  “I know all about the arrest,” Hammond interrupted. “Anything new?”

  “No.”

  Although there was another chair in the room, Mark didn’t sit down. “What’s the deal with the bag?”

  “Panic attacks.”

  He sized up the small man on the monitor. “Anyone run the VIN on his car?”

  “I don’t know. I assume so. Why wouldn’t they?”

  “You mean the arresting officers? Shit, Les. You’re assuming a street cop checked the VIN? Come on. You’re better than that. Don’t you remember what it’s like being out there?”

  Les didn’t answer.

  Mark sighed. “Since he’s here, I’ll talk to him. But go run his VIN.”

  A lot more likely Jim switched plates than it is that this paper doll’s involved, Mark thought as he headed to the interrogation room.

  Fifteen minutes later, Les confirmed Mark’s suspicions. She brought him into the hallway to tell him the VIN didn’t match the plate, but that she did have good news regarding Sarah’s whereabouts. “Seems a black-and-white called in a plate for a silver Honda parked at the Sunshine Rooms motel last night and was told it didn’t match our suspects’. Guess whose car it does match?”

  Mark didn’t need to guess. “You got the address for the motel?”

  “What do you think?” she snapped, reacting more to the scolding she’d received earlier than the immediate question.

  “Hey,” Mark called to a nearby officer. “The guy in Interrogation Room Three. Process him out and let him go.”

  Then he kicked into a full stride. “Come on. It’s early. If they stayed at the motel last night, there’s a chance they’re still there.”

  Chapter 20

  MARK AND LES PULLED UP TO THE Sunshine Rooms motel and went straight for the lobby. Mark knew the kind of scum who walked these streets at night. And while they had gone to bed, evidence of their corrupting influence lingered.

  The Sunshine Rooms had survived the neighborhood’s decline by catering to this crowd. When these streets began their downward spiral toward the decrepit state that now defined them, a lot of shops owners simply closed their doors and moved on. A few had been taken over by pawn shops, dollar stores, and the like, but many remained boarded up.

  Both those open and closed had been tagged with spray paint. Many had barred their windows. The homeless slept on the sidewalk in front of them. Trash drifted aimlessly down the cracked and potholed street.

  Crowded by the small, struggling businesses that were still open, the motel seemed to sag under the weight of all the sins it had seen.

  The damn thing should be shut down, Mark thought, as they headed from the car to reception. The whole area should be.

  They stepped through the door and a bell hanging on a string from the door’s frame announced their arrival. The lobby’s red commercial carpet was marred by ambiguous stains. English ivy and dumb cane lined each of the large windows that flanked the door. A clock hung on the wall to the left. A framed print of the Atlanta skyline hung on the wall to the right. An aging desk with a computer on it sat dead center. From behind the desk, an old woman looked up from the book she was reading and rose to her feet with a smile when she saw the officers.

  She was wearing too much make-up and her bleached hair was pulled into a bun so tight it stretched her skin in a way that reminded Mark of a back-alley facelift. All that aside, she still looked like she should be sitting on a porch somewhere knitting a scarf for her grandson. This was not the kind of place where a woman her age—or anyone, for that matter—should be working.

  “Welcome to Sunshine Rooms,” she said. “How can I help you?”

  Les flashed a badge and checked her name tag. “Marge” continued to smile.

  “We’re looking for a couple people who stayed here last night,” Mark said. “A man and a woman—”

  “We get a lot of those,” she said, with a playful wink at Mark.

  Les slipped her badge back into her pocket. “I’m sure you do.”

  “Can we see your registry?” he asked.

  “Wish I could. But with privacy laws and all that, well, you know how it is, dear. You’re a cop.”

  “This is important.”

  “It’s always important. Look, it’s not that I don’t want to show you, but, like I said, you know how it is. People here—they like their secrets.”

  “I’m sure they do. But we’re not private investigators looking for a cheating husband. This is about a child.”

  Marge ticked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and shook her head. “It’s sad, isn’t it? The children always get the worst of it. I still can’t show you the registry.”

  Mark put his hands on his hips and paced to the door and back. He’d never hit a woman, and never would. But he sure wanted to now.

  Knocking on every door was unrealistic. He’d bet money their suspects wouldn’t answer, anyway. Then what would they do? Kick in every door that went unanswered? Sure, they could call in another warrant, but Marge would probably want to see it. The whole process would take too long.

  Les, who apparently shared his concerns, turned on her charm. “You know, Marge, I was just thinking: It’s really noble of you to be running such an upstanding business in this kind of neighborhood. I mean, I know you have to rent rooms once in a while to some unsavory characters like those cheating husbands my partner mentioned, but it’s nice to see you weathering this downturn and not giving up on the area. A businesses like yours—it’ll help turn things around. They call that ‘revitalization,’ don’t they, Mark?”

  She knew as well as he did that her characterization of the motel was grossly inaccurate. If anything, one could make an argument that the motel, whose weekly rates had attracted the poor and hourly rates had attracted the hookers, could be partly to blame for the area’s decline. But she was going somewhere with this. Even though he wasn’t sure where yet, he trusted her enough to play along. “That sounds right.”

  “Well, Marge, I tell you what. We’re going to do to help you out. I’m sure the Sunshine Rooms would rather not be renting rooms to some of the people who come knocking, but you can’t always pick and choose in a neighborhood like this. You turn away the wrong person and you could become a target for all kind
s of nasty shit.

  “So I’m going to talk to the patrol captain for this area and make sure you’ve got officers stopping by every night. You know, just checking in on the guests, making sure everyone’s safe and there’s no riff-raff who’s snuck in. A business like yours—the city really should be doing everything we can to help you. Does that sound good?”

  Without moving her head, still smiling (although now it was a forced, wooden smile) her eyes darted from Mark to Les. Then she said, “I just work here.”

  “Great. So, it’s all settled. I’m sure it won’t be any problem for officers to swing by starting tonight. What do you think, Mark?”

  “I can’t see why it would be. They could probably come by every couple hours or so. They’re right in the area. Shouldn’t be any trouble at all. Besides, this is probably a good gig for you. Quiet and peaceful. I’d hate to see such a fine establishment go out of business because the wrong kind of people are finding their way in.”

  Still smiling, she gave in. “Would you like to see the registry?”

  “Thank you,” Mark said.

  Marge typed something into the computer, then swung the monitor around. “That’s everyone who checked in last night.”

  Smith.

  Presley.

  Flintstone.

  The list went on.

  Mark sighed. “When did your shift start?”

  “Mine? It’s almost over. I’m a night owl. Always have been. Must be in my genes.”

  “So you were at the desk around three?”

  “Always am.”

  “The man would have stood about five-ten. Brown hair. Clean shaven. Last we saw him he was wearing—”

  “Good-lookin’ fellow,” Marge said, confirming she remembered him from the little bit of description Mark has provided.

  “That’s not something I would know,” Hammond responded.

  “You may be straight, but you’re not dead.” She turned her attention to Les: “Surely you noticed, right, doll?”

  “I haven’t seen him in person yet.”

  “Well, trust me, he’s cute.”

  “So you know him?”

  “I remember him.”

  “He was with a woman?”

  “He checked in alone, but a lot of the fellas do.” She winked again at Mark. “Doesn’t mean there wasn’t a woman waiting outside. Anyway, he was the only one to check in after two-thirty. That’s part of the reason I remember him.”

  “Has he checked out yet?”

  Marge turned the monitor back around. “Mandalay. No, looks like he’s still there.”

  “Mandalay?” Les said.

  “He’s not going to check in under ‘Rossin,’” answered Hammond.

  “Look, I don’t want you guys busting into some guest’s room unless you’re sure about who you’re looking for.”

  “We’re sure,” Mark said.

  “You got a spare key for the room?” Les asked.

  “I’ve got a master key.”

  “Can we borrow it?”

  She retrieved the master key from under the desk and handed it to Les. “Just don’t bother any of the other guests. They’re probably sleeping. It’s still early, you know.”

  Without answering, Mark headed toward the exit. “Crazy old bird,” he said, as he ascended the staircase to the second floor.

  Les hurried to keep up. “We should call in support.”

  Mark knew it was protocol to do so. Brass didn’t want a suspect resisting arrest and later claiming he didn’t know the plainclothes officers were police. However, Sarah had already met Hammond, so he was confident any such claim would be dismissed.

  They stopped outside Room 232. The blinds over the large bay window were closed. Mark held one finger to his lips, leaning his head close to the door to listen for signs of life. Les drew her gun.

  “You hear anything?” she whispered.

  He shook his head. After drawing his gun as well, he knocked on the door. “Open up! This is the police!”

  Chapter 21

  BRANDON AWOKE ON THE COLD WOOD floor in the fetal position. He wasn’t sure what time it was. However, from the morning-soft light coming in through the windows, he knew the day was just getting started. His mouth was dry. His stomach growled. The food left on the nightstand looked safer than it had the night before.

  He stood, shaking off any lingering sleepiness, and turned the doorknob in hopes that the lock had disengaged. He couldn’t remember dreaming... or falling asleep, for that matter. Perhaps he had passed out as he had when he attempted to break the porcelain. Perhaps the trick had worked like it had before, just moments before losing consciousness, and the door was unlocked.

  He got to his feet and turned the knob this way and that. The door didn’t budge.

  Brandon was disappointed, but the morning had brought with it a renewed hope of escape. He scampered over to the windows to see if he could learn any more about his surroundings. Neighboring houses would be promising, a guarantee of nearby help when he got out.

  Unfortunately, from these windows, he could see no houses. Just trees. Untamed wilderness seemed to stretch out endlessly in every direction.

  Still, common sense told him there had to be a driveway. There had to be a road. And there might be neighbors.

  His stomach tightened. He crossed from the window to the nightstand where the sandwich waited. He disassembled it, looking for anything hazardous. No razor blades between the first piece of bread and the lettuce. No nails between the lettuce and the cheese. No pills between the cheese and the meat. No glass between the meat and the bottom piece of bread.

  Brandon decided to take a bite. Whatever this stranger wanted from Brandon, whatever horrible thing he might have planned, he didn’t think his death had been served up on this sandwich.

  He chewed slowly at first, examining the food with his taste buds. Once he deemed it edible, he devoured it. After he finished the sandwich, he disregarded all caution and gulped down the milk. Then he stood by the nightstand for a moment, glass in both hands, milk glistening on his upper lip, panting. He’d been so hungry he had hardly paused to breathe. He wiped away his milk mustache with his forearm and put the glass back on the nightstand. His stomach still growled, but it would settle soon.

  Back to the matter at hand: his escape.

  Chapter 22

  NO ONE ANSWERED MARK WHEN he knocked on 232.

  “We’re coming in!” he shouted. Then, after using the master key to unlock the door, he threw the door open as Les swept the interior with her gun.

  The room was empty.

  Mark quickly moved toward the bathroom, reminding anyone within earshot that they were the police. After a complete search of the interior, they found only unmade beds, wet towels on the floor, and an empty Walmart bag by the corner trash can.

  “They’re gone,” Les said. “We must’ve just missed them.”

  WHILE MARK WAS SPEWING enough obscenities to make the devil blush, Jim was driving Sarah to Pinehurst High School. The motel was barely twenty minutes behind them.

  “Have you thought about what you’re going to say to her?” Jim asked, referring to Megan.

  “Not exactly,” Sarah answered. Her voice was distant, like she was only half-listening. She hadn’t taken her eyes off the menagerie outside her window since they’d left the motel parking lot. Jim knew she was hoping to catch a glimpse of her son.

  In contrast to the troubled emotions that hung heavy in the Honda, the people on the street and in cars around them smiled and laughed with carefree jubilation. The weather never got this warm so late in the year. Nonetheless, summer, already stabbed through by a number of cold spells, had crawled back to its knees in final defiance. With it had come clear skies and the false hope of a mild fall.

  The warm weather lifted people’s spirits. Undoubtedly, all sorts of outdoor plans would be made for that afternoon. Tennis courts would be booked. Playgrounds would be full. Lovers would walk hand-in-hand through parks. Non
e of them would imagine a mother out there looking for her abducted son, a mother who was both a hunter and hunted.

  It was so normal and so wrong. It reminded her of how she felt when she stepped into the bathroom to escape Detective Hammond.

  “Well, give it some thought,” he said. “You’ve only got one crack at her.”

  “I know.”

  “Don’t just blurt out that he’s missing.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You have to be gentle with this.”

  “I will.”

  Jim pulled into the school parking lot. A dozen or so spots were reserved near the doors for short-term visitors. He claimed one of them and turned off the engine.

  Pinehurst High School was a red brick, three-story structure with a sizable football field behind it and a gym in an attached building. Built in the 1960s on a tight budget, it was boxy and unremarkable. Although the grounds around it were well-tended, with flowers planted throughout the year, there was little that could be done to downplay the institutional feel of the place.

  In the principal’s office, Sarah explained her relationship with Megan to a secretary who repeatedly pushed her glasses back up her nose. Then that same secretary led them to the third floor. Class was in session and the hallways were quiet. Their footsteps on the black-and-white faux-tile linoleum echoed off steel lockers that looked old enough to be the originals. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. The walls were painted eggshell white.

  Although this corridor looked almost identical to the ones in St. Ives, it somehow seemed burdened by hopelessness, like the school was cracking, crumbling, decaying behind the walls. Sarah’s desperation to find Brandon was distorting her perception of her everyday world, she realized.

  A voice in her head spoke up: In life you need inspiration or desperation. She couldn’t remember where the quote came from, which, coming on the heels of the lyric she couldn’t place yesterday, troubled her. She had always been able to identify quotes that popped into her head. Especially literary quotes.

  The secretary stopped at a classroom door. She pushed at her glasses once more. “Wait here. I’ll go in and get her.” She knocked on the door and stepped inside. “Mind if we borrow Megan Bellows for a moment?”