Guilty by Association (Judah Black Novels) Page 10

  I stood and cracked my back. “You didn’t even file a police report when Leo Garcia went missing.”

  “How did you even find out about this?”

  “That part doesn't matter. What does matter is finding those kids. If this department isn't going to do that, then I will.”

  Tindall walked over and closed the door, bolting it shut. “That's what Elias said, too, and you see how well that worked out for him.”

  “You knew Elias was looking into the disappearances?” I crossed my office to stand next to Tindall who was resting his forehead against the wall. “And you didn't think to bring that up yesterday?”

  His head snapped up and he shot me a glare of daggers. “I was told to back off or turn in my badge, Black. If I'd told you about those kids, you would have went off halfcocked, tearing this town apart. The parents are skittish enough that they won't talk to me. If you start poking around, we'll never find their remains.”

  “Remains?” I raised my eyebrows. “There's a chance those kids are still alive. Even if they're not, we're not going to continue to look the other way while some monster terrorizes this town. Who the hell does your chief think he is?” I stopped and took a deep breath. Getting upset and taking this out on Tindall wasn't going to help me find those kids and Elias' murderer any faster. I needed info and evidence and I needed it fast. “Tell me everything you know about those missing kids,” I said in a shaky voice.

  Tindall told me everything, which wasn't much. In the limited time he'd had to pursue the cases before his superiors got wind of what was happening, he hadn't been able to find any connection between the victims other than that they were unregistered residents. The cases he'd worked had been on victims of different income brackets, different races, from different parts of town. Just like Sal had said, they'd gone missing sometime overnight. The houses hadn’t had any signs of a break-in. “My primary suspects were always the parents in both cases,” he finished. “Rita Greenlee, the troll mother of the first kid, had a history of mental instability. She'd been on and off anti-depressants most of her life.”

  “What about the Garcias?” I asked.

  Tindall shrugged. “Valentino's some kind of ex-gang banger. Wouldn't surprise me if he lost his temper and took it out on the kid. You know how stressful raising a kid can be.”

  I scrolled through the closed Garcia file on my laptop and frowned. “Do you have any kids, Tindall?”

  He took a long time to answer so I looked up. Poor Tindall looked like I'd just stabbed him in the gut and twisted the knife. “Used to,” he said, his voice full of tension. “A daughter. She'd be eighteen now.”

  “Oh God,” I said, rising. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean...”

  “It's not like it's a big secret,” Tindall said with a strained smile. “It's how I wound up here, you know? But I'd rather not talk about it. My wife...We never had what you'd call closure.”

  I nodded and continued in a gentler tone. “Valentino doesn't strike me as that kind of guy. He seemed more desperate and frantic when I met him. He'd do anything to get his child back. Wouldn't you?”

  He walked over to the window and gave the desert outside a good, long stare before he cleared his throat. “Teagan Summers came to me. She was a mess, poor woman. She'd pulled her whole life savings and shoved it across the table at me, begging me to find her daughter.” Tindall turned away from the window, his expression pained. “She's where you'll want to start. This...monster...It isn't finished doing whatever it's doing. My hands are tied with miles of red tape and political bullshit. The chief doesn't want me on this. Hell, he doesn't even want me to help you. But dammit, Black, no parent should ever have to put an empty coffin in the ground. Not one. If you can find these kids or what's left of 'em, I'll risk my badge on it. All I ever found was dead ends and closed doors.”

  I smiled and nodded. Whatever negative opinion I'd formed of Tindall on our first day together was gone. He wasn't a burnt out cop who didn't care anymore. His problem was that he had cared too much. He was me in twenty years if I wasn't careful. “I'm sure as hell going to try. You stay out of it, though, unless I need you. Understand?”

  He put a hand on my shoulder. I hadn't figured Tindall would be a touchy-feely kind of person, so the contact probably meant I should pay attention. I turned back to him before I opened the door. “The Summers are fae but even for fae they're peculiar. You want I should tag along? Maybe I rub werewolves the wrong way but I can deal with fae.”

  I cracked a small smile. “Thanks, but this isn't my first rodeo, detective. Go and get your special at the diner. I'll go talk to the Summers. Your badge is safer that way.”

  * * * * *

  Donald and Teagan Summers lived on Fae Boulevard with most of the other fae. Their house was a pleasant, well-kept two story place, probably left over from Paint Rock's days as a public town where anyone could live. It had gray-green shutters, a rock garden and a pretty little fountain with kissing mermaids in the front. I heard them shuffling around inside when I rang the doorbell and hoped they weren't concealing evidence of some kind.

  The door cracked open and a middle aged man with a streak of silver in his hair looked out at me. He had a look about him that said he was in some kind of professional work. You know, the doctor or lawyer look, though he wasn't wearing the clothes that went along with either. He was in a battered and sweat stained white t-shirt and a pair of cut offs.

  “Help ya, lass?” Now, I was a linguistics major in college and my favorite thing to study was accents and regionalisms. I prided myself in being able to identify accents that most people mix up like Scottish, Irish and Welsh. The one he spoke with rested comfortably somewhere between all three.

  I showed him by BSI badge and his eyes got as wide as teacups. “I'm Special Agent Judah Black with BSI. I was wondering if you had a minute to talk.”

  “I've naught to say about it,” he said and started to shut the door on me.

  I wedged my foot into the opening and it took the full brunt of his hurry to get away. Nothing broke but it definitely hurt. I gritted my teeth and forced myself through the pain. “I know Marian is missing.” He paused for just a brief second, long enough for me to choke out one or two things that might convince him to talk to me. “I just want to find her. I'll keep it off the record. You have my word.”

  He opened the door just a little wider and gave me a skeptical look. “You know what it means to give your word to my kind? Don't do it lightly, lass.”

  “I'm a mother,” I told him. “I don't treat any crime involving children lightly.”

  Finally, he opened the door the rest of the way and stood off to the side. “Come in, then, but be quick about it. Don't let no one see you.”

  The inside décor matched the outside: pleasant and eclectic but still inexpensively betraying a watered down sense of old, country style. The man, who I'd gathered must be Donald Summers, ushered me to a sofa and offered me a beer that I turned down. I might be willing to give him my word and risk the wrath of a faerie but I wasn't willing to go into debt against one. Only when I'd turned him down three times did he sink down into the easy chair next to the sofa. “She's dead,” he said in a distant tone. “What took her's asked no ransom so either she's dead or I wish she were.”

  I frowned. “Mr. Summers, Marian doesn't have a file with BSI, is that correct?”

  “I had identity documents pending. See, she was an illegal baby. I know she was but Teagan and I were trying to do the right thing, pay our fine and move on with life. We were so happy and then this...” He started to sob dry tears into his hand. “Sorry, lass,” he offered after a few minutes. “It was BSI, wasn't it? This is what we get for trying to go straight. I should have known that wouldn't be enough.”

  He went on sobbing but something clicked in my brain. Neither the Garcias nor the Greenlees had been in the process of legitimizing their childrens' parentage. The process was long, hard and expensive. If Donald was telling t
he truth, there was plenty of paperwork to prove that Marian existed, even if it was pending in a federal database. That meant one of two things: either the kidnapper-killer had made a grave mistake and changed his M.O. or he'd panicked and gotten sloppy.

  “How long has Marian been missing, Mr. Summers?”

  “Six days.” Donald stopped sobbing and wiped his face with the back of his hand. “Are you here to...to kill me?”

  “Why should anyone want to kill you?”

  He set stormy gray eyes on me and answered in a dark tone, “Why should anyone want to kill my little girl? My beautiful, perfect Marian...Why not me? If you're here to do it, then get on with it. My wife will be back soon. I don't want her to see.”

  There was a sort of dry courage to the way he said it, even though his voice wavered. Still, he acted relieved when I announced, “I'm not here to kill you. I'm looking into the disappearances, discreetly, of course. Do you have any dealings with the local werewolf pack, Mr. Summers?”

  He wrinkled his nose at that. “Not if I can help it. It's them and the fanged ones that got us into this mess, making the world aware of us like that to save their skins. And for what? To avoid prosecution for some high profile murder case? We'd still be living the good life if not for them. I used to be a professor, you know. Texas A and M. I lost everything coming public. No. I avoid them.”

  So much for easy connections, I thought and moved on to the next line of questioning. If there wasn't an obvious connection between Elias and the missing kids, maybe there was something else. “What'd you teach?”

  “Folklore of the Americas. Specifically, my research focused on the fantastical beasts of the Native American tribes.” As he spoke, he shifted from the broken father to a professional educator, confident in his work.

  “Like skinwalkers and wendigos and stuff?”

  “Aye. Specifically, the wendigo. A real monster, that one. Eats his prey, gorges himself on the flesh of his victims. Worst part is, he doesn't eat them right away. No, he only comes above ground every thirty years or so and gathers his crop of flesh, drags them back to his lair where he fattens them up over the course of three decades, feeding on them slowly, bit by bit.” Donald sounded almost excited, talking about his work, even as unsavory as it was.

  I grimaced. “Don't think I'd want to meet one of those in a dark alley.”

  “Oh,” Donald chuckled and wiped at his nose. “They prefer the cold climate and the dark of caves. You're not likely to meet one about these parts. Though they say you shouldn't even speak the beasts' name because it draws its attention. I've been lecturing on the wendigo for near three decades now in all parts of North America and not seen a one. I'm sure they're just a story, lass. Still, BSI seized all my research when I came public.” He'd lost all his confidence in that speech and gone back to being sad. “But you're not interested in my research, lass, are you?”

  I shook my head. No, that wasn't any sort of connection at least, not so far as I knew. “Are you religious, Mr. Summers?”

  He frowned. I could tell he was considering not answering me at all and I didn't blame him. It was a pretty personal question. “My wife is. A good Catholic, she is. Teagan insisted that Marian be baptized. I still have that little white dress. God help me, I don't have a birth certificate but I have her fecking dress.” He collapsed back into tears.

  Catholic. That hit a button in my brain. Sal had mentioned that Elias may have confided in a priest.

  “Just one more question. Who knew you had a daughter? Were you secretive at all about her?”

  Donald Summers stared straight through me, sorrow working at the corners of his eyes. “We even had the baptism in secret. Hardly anybody knew. Me, Teagan, the priest, the pretty young thing from BSI that interviewed us...”

  “Wait, someone from BSI interviewed you?” Donald nodded hesitantly. “Why?”

  He blinked. “Marian’s registration paperwork. She was the one assigned to our case.”

  “What did she look like?”

  He thought for a minute, rifling his fingers through his hair. “Um...Tall. Dark hair, very impeccably dressed. I don't remember many details about her, now that you mention it. I do remember that she had this beautiful white Jag.”

  I narrowed my eyes. I'd seen a white Jaguar in Sal's driveway the day before. This couldn't possibly be the same car, could it? If it was, how did that even make sense? That woman couldn't even stand up to Sal. She was practically a twig. She couldn't have killed Elias, not some little thing like that. Besides, the voice I'd heard in my vision was decidedly male. Still, I made a mental note to get more information about the woman and match her name to the registration of said white Jaguar.

  “You wouldn't happen to remember the plates on the car? Even a partial would help?”

  Donald shook his head. “Sorry.” He hesitated and then added. “You're not going to start pulling our files? Agent Black, there are other missing kids that haven't come home. They don't even have bodies to bury. If you go asking about...”

  I smiled. “I gave you my word. No one will know I was here.”

  It took some doing but I finally convinced him to let me have a look at the nursery, which he insisted no one had touched since Marian went missing. There was a white bassinet with a pretty pink blanket and a mobile of spinning pixies. A changing station stood next to that and piled in the corner were more toys than any kid could possibly play with. Everything was neat and tidy, as if Marian and her mother had just stepped out for a few hours to do the shopping.

  “What are you going to do?” Donald asked from the doorway as I stepped into the center of the room.

  I didn't answer him at first. I just closed my eyes and tried to concentrate. Maybe there would still be some residual energy left that I could track. Maybe Marian had been scared enough to leave a faint Impression like I'd found at Elias' murder scene. That would be gold for the investigation, right there. I couldn't be that lucky. The only thing I could feel was the Summers' distress. It had seeped into the walls, dark and black and desperate.

  I lowered my hands and let out a breath. “Mr. Summers, do you have any idea who might have taken your daughter? Did anyone have a key?”

  “We're fae, lass,” he said solemnly. “We guard our threshold something fierce. If something had come across it at night, we would have known. No. Nothing came and nothing went through the doors or through the windows.”

  “How can you be so sure?” I asked turning to him. Donald walked over to the window behind the bassinet and waved a hand in front of it. A nauseating wave of power flowed through the room as little white sigils appeared on the glass. “The windows and doors are warded,” I noted. “And no one but you two knows how to get through the wards?”

  “Aye. Any fool who tried would be in for the shock of a lifetime. That and we'd know. My Marian just disappeared.”

  Tindall's theory that the parents had each harmed their own children was possible, though I doubted it. The evidence was there to support such a case, if someone wanted to make it, though. A decade ago, that's exactly how something like this would have been handled. I didn't buy it, especially given how distraught Donald was. Still, I couldn't rule it out as a possibility, however grim a possibility it was.

  “Mr. Summers,” I said after a sigh. “Statistically speaking, most children are kidnapped by people they know. In fact, most violent crimes are committed by relatives. That's why the police always interview family members first.” He didn't answer me. He just stayed by the bassinet, staring down at it sadly. “Is there any chance that your wife...”

  Donald Summers turned on me, his eyes gleaming with supernatural rage. He pointed toward the door and snarled, “Out!”

  “It's a standard question,” I protested. “I'm just covering bases.”

  “I said get out!”

  I made a beeline for the door, stumbling out into the afternoon heat. When he slammed it closed it behind me, I heard no less than t
hree locks click shut and felt a nauseating wave of power, probably as he warded the door on top of everything else. Donald Summers wasn't cooking with any serious magick but he wanted to make it clear that he could take me out in a dark alley if he needed to. Message received, I thought and trudged back to my car.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I drove over to the address I had for the Garcias and knocked on their door but no one answered. There were two cars in the driveway but their tires were off and one was jacked up so I assumed no one was home. After scribbling a note on some scrap paper I had and sticking it inside the storm door, I got back in my car and drove over to Paint Rock's only church at the edge of town.

  The pristine white siding of the small church gave it away as one of the reservation's newest buildings. It had a steeple, a cross and all the other fixings of a church, including a small, fenced in graveyard with just a few stones. I parked the truck in the parking lot next to a white VW Passat and gathered myself for what I knew was going to be a taxing trip.

  Churches, mosques, temples and the like all have their own special energy. The ground they stand on is blessed or better known as Holy Ground. That doesn't necessarily mean that dark things like vampires and sorcerers will burst into flame when they set foot there. That silliness is reserved for the movies. What it does mean is that it's much more difficult for them to cause trouble and use their own magick inside the bounds of Holy Ground. When I was much younger, I got dragged to church with my family. I never liked the way the place made me feel, even though the pastor and the congregation were all friendly and decent folk. It made my skin crawl. It wasn't until later, when I learned I could use magick, that I knew why. That uneasy feeling was my energy rubbing up against the energy of the church, creating a kind of magick static. If you've ever rubbed a balloon on your head, you know the feeling. It's uncomfortable but not unbearable.