Lawrence Block - The Best American Mystery Stories 1999

“Um... Mommy doesn’t work anywhere.”

“So she’s at home?”

“She’s taking a nap.”

“I see. Well, Kristin, I’ll get started on this right away. Why don’t I walk down to Twenty-first Street with you?”

“I know how to go.”

“I just thought I’d keep you company. Just to the corner of Twenty-first, okay? I won’t go all the way to your building.”

I retied my shoes while she considered that. When I stood up, she abruptly — and a bit belatedly, I thought — asked if my name was Mr. Smith. I assured her it was. She nodded, then stood up and walked to the door. I followed her outside and we walked down to the corner, then continued east for two blocks. At the corner of Twenty-first and Main I waved good-bye as she headed south. I could see the front of the apartment building and I waited until she ran across the weedy front yard and disappeared from sight.

During our walk, I had asked a few more questions. Kristin had moved to town at Christmas time. It was just her and her mother. Daddy “went away.” She would be in second grade in the fall and liked school, except for the boys, who were, in her words, stupid and yukky. I didn’t take offense: To her, boys and men were two entirely different species. She had asked some kids in the neighborhood about the doll — Megan Ann, mysteriously nicknamed Jennifer — but no one admitted knowing anything about it. She wasn’t able to tell me the brand name, which pretty much eliminated my plan to replace the missing doll with an identical new one, thereby attaining hero status in Kristin’s eyes, not to mention earning sixty-seven cents.

Back at my office, I got rid of the gum and brushed the sour taste from my mouth. I like my bubble gum bubble-gum-flavored. After showering quickly, I dressed in cut-off jeans and a T-shirt, then drove down to the police station where the chief of police was sitting on the steps leading to the main door, a clipboard on one knee. I sat down beside him, saying, “Air conditioning on the fritz again?”

“Yeah, at least I can pretend there’s a breeze out here. Kristin Michelle Baker get to your office all right?”

“Yeah, I walked her down to Twenty-first. You keep sending me clients like her, I’ll have to file bankruptcy. You know anything about her mother?”

“Nope. Just that she oughta not let a little girl that age wander all over town by herself. Maybe she’s not so bad though. I offered Kristin a ride home and she told me her mama told her not to get in cars with strangers. Still, those blocks past your building aren’t the kind of place I’d want Philip the Second hanging around.”

“She lives there, Phil.”

“I know that. It’s just... somebody oughta be keeping an eye on her. I’m sure her mama doesn’t have any idea she walked all the way down here.”

“I took the case. Now what am I going to do?”

“Buy her a new doll.”

“She couldn’t tell me the brand or anything.”

“Well... talk to her mama.”

“I don’t know... A strange man wanting to buy her daughter a doll? She’ll think I’m a child molester.”

“Just explain it to her. She gives you any funny looks, have her give me a call. How’d the run go?”

“I made it all the way without keeling over.” I stood up and dusted off the seat of my shorts. “Maybe I will talk to her mother.”

On the way over, I spotted Kristin in a yard around the corner from her apartment building, playing with three other little girls. When Kristin’s mother opened the door, I regretted my decision to talk to her. Kristin’s birth had undoubtedly had an impact on the teen pregnancy statistics. Her mother wasn’t more than twenty-two or — three, a short woman with small features that seemed crowded together in the center of her face. Her face was extravagantly made up, her nails blood red, her long dark hair a thick mass of tight, spiraling curls. The cost of the perm alone would have paid for basic phone service for a few months. The front door opened directly onto a sparsely furnished living room.

“Mrs. Baker? My name’s—”

“Jeri Lynn,” she said, smiling perkily and winding one long spiral of hair around her index ginger. “ ‘Mrs. Baker’ sounds so old.” She leaned against the doorjamb, hip cocked.

“Jeri Lynn. My name’s—”

“Is this about the car? Look, I mailed a money order... um... oh, gee, two days ago?”

“No, I’m a private detective and I—”

“I just forgot about it. I mean, I had the money and everything, but I — a detective ?” She took a step backward and seemed poised to flee. Her voice was harsh: “You’re a cop?”

“No, a private detective. My name’s Zachariah—”

“What do you want?” She fidgeted from foot to foot, her forehead creased.

“I met Kristin today and she told me about losing Megan Ann and I wanted to ask — ”

I was talking to a door. A slammed door. I knocked on it. Nothing happened. I knocked again, got the same response. From the rear of the house I heard a shout: “Kristin Michelle! You get home right this minute!”

Apartment H was on the south end of the eight-plex. I walked around the corner of the building and stood with my back against the wall, right next to an open window. I heard an electric fan with a rattle in its motor. If I heard a slap or a cry from Kristin, I planned to kick the door in. What I heard was the back door slamming, then Jeri Lynn Baker, speaking in a hoarse voice: “We’re going on a trip, Kristin, okay? Throw your clothes in here, just whatever’s in your drawers, okay? Hurry, Kristin. We gotta go quick.”

“Where are we going, Mommy? I was playing with—”

“Get your clothes.”

After that I heard drawers slamming and sobs that weren’t coming from a seven-year-old. Kristin said, “Mommy, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, honey. Just hurry, okay? That’s enough, we don’t need everything. Wait right here, okay?”

I heard nothing for a moment, then it sounded like the front door opened and then quietly closed again. A moment later, Jeri Lynn said, “Let’s go. Hurry . You don’t need that. I’ll get you another one. Let’s go , Kristin.”

“I wanna take him with me, Mommy.”

“Oh, for — all right, bring it. Now come on. ”

I ran to the back of the building and then down the length of it and down the other side, ending up at the front corner of Apartment A, where some bushes provided a little cover. I crouched behind them and watched Jeri Lynn toss a bulging canvas suitcase into the trunk of a fifteen-year-old tan Toyota. Kristin was standing by the car, one hand fiddling with a braid, the other clasping a teddy bear.

“Get in , Kristin.” Jeri Lynn opened the passenger door and gave her daughter a little shove. Kristin got in the car and her mother ran around to the driver’s side, and a moment later they were heading down the street, the tailpipe clouding the air with blue haze. I ran to my car, an old Camaro that fit right in on this street.

As I drove, I fumbled with the catch on the dashbox, finally getting it open and pulling out my cellular phone. The Toyota had turned east on Main Street. I managed to hit the right buttons on the phone and got through to the police station.

“I need to talk to the chief. He was sitting out front a few minutes ago.”

“You know how hot it is in here, Zack? The air condi—”

“Get the chief. It’s urgent.”

“Ain’t it always? Hold on.”

The Toyota was two blocks ahead of me. Another few blocks and we’d be out of town and on a county road heading east. If she didn’t make any turns, she’d link up with Interstate 84. From there, she could head west toward Portland or she could go southeast and be in Idaho in not much more than an hour if she made good time.