Blake Pierce - A Trace of Death

“Mommy, let’s get frozen yogurt!”

Keri checked her watch.

She was almost done and there was a Menchie’s on the way home. “Give me five minutes.”

“That means yes?”

She smiled.

“It means big, big yes.”

“Can I get sprinkles or just fruit toppings?”

“Let me put it like this – how do you spread fairy dust?”

“How?”

“You sprinkle it! Get it?”

“Of course I get it, Mommy. I’m not little !”

“Of course you’re not. My apologies. Just give me five minutes.”

She returned her attention to the speech. After a minute, someone walked past her, briefly casting the page in shadow. Annoyed by the distraction, she tried to regain her concentration.

Suddenly, the quiet was shattered by a bloodcurdling scream. Keri looked up, startled. A man in a windbreaker and baseball cap was running away quickly. She could only see the back of him but could tell he was holding something in his arms.

Keri got to her feet, looking desperately around for Evie. She was nowhere to be found. Keri started running after the man even before she knew for sure. A second later, Evie’s head poked out from in front of the man. She looked terrified.

“Mommy!” she screamed. “Mommy!”

Keri chased after them, breaking into a full sprint. The man had a big head start. By the time Keri was halfway across the grassy field, he was already in the parking lot.

“Evie! Let her go! Stop! Someone stop that man! He has my daughter!”

People looked around but they mostly seemed confused. No one got up to help. And she didn’t see anyone in the parking lot to stop him. She saw where he was headed. There was a white van at the far end of the lot, parallel parked near the curb for an easy exit. He was less than fifty feet from it when she heard Evie’s voice again.

“Please, Mommy, help me!” she pleaded.

“I’m coming, baby!”

Keri ran even harder, her vision blurry with burning tears, pushing past the fatigue and fear. She had reached the edge of the parking lot. The asphalt was crumbly and dug into her bare feet as she ran but she didn’t care.

“That man has my daughter!” she screamed again, pointing in their direction.

A teenage kid in a T-shirt and his girlfriend got out of their car, only a few spots from the van. The man ran right by them. They looked bewildered until Keri yelled again.

“Stop him!”

The teenager started to walk toward the man, then broke into a run. By then the man had reached the van. He slid the side door open and tossed Evie in like a sack of potatoes. Keri heard the thump as her body slammed against the wall.

He slammed the door shut and started to run around to the driver’s side when the teenage boy reached him and grabbed his shoulder. The man spun around and Keri got her best look at him. He was wearing sunglasses and a cap pulled low and it was hard to see through the tears. But she caught a glimpse of blond hair and what looked like part of a tattoo on the right side of his neck.

But before she could discern anything else, the man reared his arm back and punched the teenager in the face, sending him crashing into a nearby car. Keri heard a sickening crack. She saw the man pull a knife from a sheath attached to his belt and plunge it into the teenager’s chest. He pulled it out and waited a second to watch the kid tumble to the ground before hurrying around to the driver’s seat.

Keri forced what she’d just seen out of her head and focused on nothing but reaching that van. She heard the engine start and saw the van start to pull out. She was less than twenty feet away.

But the vehicle was picking up speed now. Keri kept running but she could feel her body start to give out. She looked at the license plate, ready to commit it to memory. There was none.

She reached for her keys, then realized they were in her purse, back on the field. She ran back to where the teenager was, hoping to grab his and take that car. But when she got to him, she saw his girlfriend kneeling over him, sobbing uncontrollably.

She looked up again. The van was far off in the distance now, leaving a trail of dust. She had no license plate, no description to speak of, nothing to offer the police. Her daughter was gone and she didn’t know how to get her back.

Keri dropped to the ground beside the teenage girl and began to weep anew, their wails of despair indistinguishable from each other.

When she opened her eyes she was back in Denton’s house. She didn’t remember coming out of the shed or walking across the dead grass. But she had somehow gotten to the Rivers’ kitchen. This was twice in one day.

It was getting worse.

She walked back into the living room, looked Denton in the eyes, and said, “Where’s Ashley?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why is her phone in your possession?”

“She left it here yesterday.”

“Bullshit! She broke up with you four days ago. She wasn’t here yesterday.”

Denton’s face sagged visibly at the verbal gut punch.

“Okay, I took it from her.”

“When?”

“This afternoon at school.”

“You just snatched it out of her hand?”

“No, I bumped into her after the final bell and snuck it from her purse.”

“Who owns a black van?”

“I don’t know.”

“A friend of yours?”

“No.”

“Someone you hired?”

“No.”

“How’d you get those scratches on your arm?”

“I don’t know.”

““How did you get that bump on your head?”

“I don’t know.”

“Whose blood is that on the carpet?”

“I don’t know.”

Keri shifted her feet and tried to hold back the fury rising in her blood. She could feel herself losing the battle.

She stared through him and said, without emotion, “I’m going to ask you one more time: where is Ashley Penn?”

“Screw you.”

“That’s the wrong answer. You think about that on the way down to the station.”

She turned away, hesitated briefly, and then suddenly swung back around and punched him with a closed fist, hard, with every ounce of frustration in her body. She got him square in the temple, in the same spot as his previous wound. It split open and blood shot everywhere, some landing on Keri’s blouse.

Ray stared at her in disbelief, frozen. Then he jerked Denton Rivers to his feet with one powerful yank and said, “You heard the lady! Move! And don’t trip and hit your head on any more coffee tables.”

Keri gave him a wry smile for that one but Ray didn’t smile back at her. He looked horrified.

Something like this could cost her her job.

She didn’t care, though. All she cared about right now was getting this punk to talk.

Monday

Evening

Keri drove the Prius with Ray in the passenger seat as they followed the black-and-white she’d called to transport Rivers down to the station. Keri listened quietly as Ray worked the phone.

The captain in charge of the West LA Division was Reena Beecher, but she would be notified of the situation by the head of Pacific Division’s Major Crimes Unit, Keri and Ray’s boss, Lieutenant Cole Hillman. That’s who Ray was filling in now. Hillman, or “Hammer,” as some of his underlings called him, had jurisdiction over missing persons, homicide, robbery, and sex crimes.

Keri wasn’t a huge fan. To her, Hillman seemed more interested in covering his own ass than putting it on the line to solve cases. Maybe seniority had made him soft. He had no qualms about tearing into detectives who didn’t clear their boards – their running tally of open cases. Thus the nickname “Hammer,” which he seemed to love. But to Keri’s mind he was a hypocrite who got pissed when they didn’t close cases and got pissed when they took risks to solve those very cases. Keri thought a more appropriate nickname was “asshole.” But since she couldn’t call him that, her little rebellion was to never call him by his preferred nickname either.