Steven Havill - Privileged to Kill

“Well, she’s not here. You can search the place if you want. She’s not here.”

“All right,” I said. “I’d like to take a look, with your permission.” That wasn’t what Mrs. Davila wanted to hear, but I didn’t wait for another invitation. I had no warrant, and it was my word against hers. The opportunity was there and I took it.

I sidled down the narrow hallway, past the closet door and the doors for the furnace and the front bathroom and then, on the opposite side, a small bedroom. I would have gone further, but there was no need.

Vanessa Davila was sitting in a chair by the window of her little bedroom, rocking back and forth, tears streaming down her face. She was hugging a huge stuffed skunk. She looked up, saw me, and buried her face in the skunk’s silky fur. Her body, so large that it overflowed the chair in all directions, shook with her sobbing.

I didn’t go in, but turned and beckoned Mrs. Davila. I was acutely aware of Estelle Reyes-Guzman’s absence. If she hadn’t been busy investigating a traffic fatality, I would have headed for the telephone and let her come and unravel the mess.

Mrs. Davila ducked her head in either relief or embarrassment and shuffled down the hallway until she was within arm’s length. I reached out a hand and rested it lightly on her shoulder.

“Mrs. Davila, now listen to me. I know this is hard for you and your daughter, but we really have to talk to Vanessa. And it would be so much easier if you went along.”

“She never did nothing…”

“I know that, Mrs. Davila. We’re after information, is all. Just give us an hour or so, all right?”

“I got to come, too?”

I nodded. “We really need you to be there. Your daughter’s underage. She needs you. She really does.”

It was obvious that Vanessa certainly needed something. Mrs. Davila coaxed and got a response that was an odd mixture of rattlesnake venom and abject misery. The two of them slipped into Spanish and left me far behind.

At last, Vanessa rose out of her chair, still holding Sammy Skunk. Through lids puffy from crying, she regarded me as if I were the cause of all her misery. Still, she shuffled across the bedroom toward the door.

I back-pedaled out of her way, taking a step down the hall so she could walk by. Just as she reached the doorway, she turned and flung the skunk into the room. The rejected, soggy thing hit the wall near the head of the bed and tumbled into a corner.

“I’ll drive you down and then bring you both back home,” I said, and Mrs. Davila nodded.

“My coat’s in the kitchen.” She didn’t say anything about a coat for Vanessa. The girl was wearing a T-shirt and jeans, and I could see her bare ankles above her soiled and stretched athletic shoes.

“Are you going to be all right?” I asked as Vanessa reached the front door. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t what I got.

Without a backward glance, Vanessa yanked the door open and stepped out into the brisk night. I followed, but she was beyond reach. She ignored the patrol car and set off across the open spaces of the trailer park at a wild gallop.

I bellowed something but I was shouting at the darkness. Vanessa Davila might have weighed enough to squash the scales, but she was only fourteen years old and determined as hell. The last glimpse I had of her was her broad back disappearing around the end of the dark mobile home in slot 12.

Mrs. Davila stood in the doorway, her hands tightly clasped.

“Do you know where she might be going?”

She shook her head. “She doesn’t talk to me anymore,” she said.

“She’s going to talk to us,” I said, and forced myself to take the three steel steps down to the car one at a time.

There was no way Vanessa Davila could have hidden from me. Her trailer was the better part of a hundred yards from the entrance to the mobile home park, and it didn’t take me long to grunt into 310 and slam the gear lever into drive. She had headed for the back of the lot, then doubled back, running along behind the other trailers on the far side. We should have both arrived at the gate at about the same time. I slid to a stop with the patrol car’s nose sticking out into Escondido Lane, and I played the spotlight up and down the road. The place was deserted.

I cranked around in my seat and surveyed the nearest trailers. Nothing moved except an elderly, arthritic mutt who leaned his weight against his chain, front legs spraddled. He didn’t bark and his tail was motionless. Maybe he was bronze.

Edging out into the street and turning left, I shot the spotlight beam across lots behind the trailers. Unless Vanessa was doing a good imitation of a propane tank, she wasn’t there. I probed the dark spots behind cars and wheelbarrows and doghouses as I idled 310 down the road.

A deep hedge of locust, elm, and juniper formed the eastern boundary of the park, and from there the property along Escondido Lane was a hodgepodge of older homes with cluttered yards. I sighed and shook my head.

“Vanessa, Vanessa, Vanessa,” I murmured. If she had dived through the hedge, she could be house-hopping all the way out the lane until it jogged north to join State Highway 17.

Dogs barked here and there, but that didn’t mean they were watching Vanessa sneak through the darkness. In Posadas, there were always dogs barking. A home wasn’t a home without a stupid spaniel or hound in the front yard, barking at the hum of the streetlights.

I accelerated hard and drove quickly east on Escondido, keeping 310 noisy until I reached the state road. There was no traffic, and I pulled out on the highway with a squeal of rubber. It was the sort of sound that would carry, even over the dogs. Vanessa might hear it and relax for a few minutes.

I drove for half a minute, then slowed, drifted the car to the shoulder, and swung in a wide U-turn.

With the intersection of Escondido Lane in sight, I punched off the headlights and let the patrol car coast. The tires crunched on loose gravel as I turned into the lane and I let the vehicle’s momentum carry me along. Vapor lights were scarce and there wasn’t much moon. I leaned forward, peering into the darkness, until my chin was almost on top of the steering wheel.

As the car drifted to a stop, I pulled over to one side and switched off the engine. Both windows were down and I sat quietly counting the heartbeats in my ears.

I would have felt better if, in a few minutes, I had seen Vanessa Davila’s imposing figure materialize out of the darkness. Another car approached, and I turned my head so the bright lights wouldn’t rob what little was left of my night vision.

It was an older model pickup, and after it passed I watched it in the rearview mirror. The occupants were silhouetted against the glare of their truck’s headlights, and neither person had enough shoulder width to be Vanessa.

With a twist of the key, 310 burbled into life and I drove slowly back on Escondido, sweeping the spotlight from one side to the other. When I reached Grande, I switched off the light and turned right, not the least bit eager to explain to Martin Holman why I didn’t have a fourteen-year-old in custody.

I couldn’t imagine Vanessa Davila running far-or even walking far. It was just a question of probing the right set of shadows at the right time before I found her. As 310 idled up Grande toward the expressway interchange, I glanced up the steep slope of concrete that formed the sides of the underpass. And there she was.

Vanessa Davila sat on the ledge where the span beams rested. Her legs were drawn up so that she could rest her head on her knees, with arms locked around them. She had to be exhausted after sprinting this far, but I had no illusions about her staying put.