David Bell - Cemetery Girl

From that point on, a slight rift grew between the police and us. They slowly drew down their resources-the SBI removed their consulting agent from the case, the New Cambridge PD cut back to one detective-and we sensed, both Abby and I, that the authorities were no longer taking us seriously, that we were being moved to the back burner as long as no new information came forward to propel the case along.

Did I really believe that Caitlin had run away? I like to tell myself I never did. But I have to admit there were nights-lying in bed, staring at the ceiling-when the results of those Internet searches cycled through my brain like trains themselves. And I had to ask myself, there in the dark: What was Caitlin really thinking or doing? Did anybody-even me-really know?

The Fantasy Club was removed from all the respectable businesses, a small, sturdily built structure with a gravel parking lot and a blinking sign that promised ADULT ENTERTAINMENT-COUPLES WELCOME.

The lot was almost empty when I parked, my tires crunching over the gravel and kicking up a puff of white dust. The lack of windows made the place look a little like a fortress, a distant entertainment outpost. When I walked in, my eyes struggled to adjust to the gloom; no one tended the door or asked me to pay a cover charge. The stage was empty, the music off. The lone bartender and his only customer stood watch over a newspaper and a TV playing a daytime talk show. The bartender managed to pry his eyes away from the paper.

“Help you?”

My head was still buzzing a little from the beer I’d drunk with Buster, so I ordered a club soda. The corner of the bartender’s mouth curled a little.

“You want a lime with that? I’m all out of limes.”

“No lime.”

He sprayed the soda into a plastic cup and placed it on the bar. “We’re between shows,” he said, “so I won’t charge you for the drink.”

“That’s fine.” I dug around in my pocket and found a dollar bill, which I placed on the counter as a tip and a peace offering.

The bartender raised his eyebrows but didn’t pick it up. “Thanks,” he said.

I took a seat at the end of the bar. I drummed my fingers on the bar top and swallowed the club soda in less than a minute. I jabbed at the ice with my little red cocktail straw, tried to focus on the argument raging on the TV, then asked for a refill. The bartender provided it without looking up from his paper.

“Tonight we’re having a lingerie show,” he said. “You ought to stick around.”

“I have to face my wife at some point today.”

The bartender looked up and winked at me. “Hell, bring her. Didn’t you see the sign? Couples welcome.”

“You haven’t met my wife.”

The bartender and his customer both laughed at my joke, and for a moment I entered their masculine circle.

“Can I ask you guys a question?” I asked.

Their laughter broke off. The sound of the TV filled the space, the tinny voice of an acne-faced kid who stood accused of fathering two children by two different high school girls. He was protesting to the host, his voice rising like a siren.

I reached into my wallet and brought out the picture of Caitlin I always carried with me. Her last school portrait, the one the police circulated to the media in the wake of her disappearance. I held it up in the space between me and the two men. I tried to make my voice casual.

“Have you ever seen this girl in here?” I asked.

The customer, an older man with a deeply lined, sagging face, looked away, deferring responsibility for dealing with me to the bartender.

“You a cop?” he asked.

“No.”

“Private investigator?”

“I’m her father.”

A hint of sympathy flickered across the bartender’s eyes. He leaned in a couple of inches and looked at the photo, his brow furrowing.

“Yeah, I’ve seen her,” he said. He flipped the newspaper closed and tapped his index finger against the front page. It was the New Cambridge Herald . “Right here.” It wasn’t above-the-fold news, but it had made the front near the bottom, tucked next to the weather forecast. A picture of Caitlin along with the story-the same photo I held in my hand. “But I haven’t seen her in here. We don’t allow underage kids in. No, sir.”

“Did you really take a look at the picture?” I asked.

He sighed a little, then looked again. He studied the picture longer than before, even going so far as to tilt his head back and to the side to get a better angle.

“No,” he said. “She’s just a little girl. I’ve never seen her.”

“She’d be sixteen now.”

“Sixteen? How old is she in the picture?”

“Twelve.”

“Do you know how much a kid changes between twelve and sixteen?”

I put the photo back in my wallet.

“I wish I did,” I said. “I really wish I did.”

The woman with Liann looked young, college-age young, and she wore a T-shirt, short cutoff denim shorts, and flip-flops. She carried a blue and red gym bag, and when they came abreast of the bar, the bartender, the same one who’d served me, grunted.

“You’re late, Tracy.”

“Did someone die and put you in charge, Pete?” she asked.

Liann looked as out of place in the Fantasy Club as I felt. She wore a no-nonsense brown business suit, and her brown hair was pulled back in a short ponytail. Liann was older than me-she was approaching fifty-but she maintained a rail-thin figure through a combination of jogging and biking. She looked strong and determined as she brought the young woman toward me, a motherly hand resting on the girl’s arm. Her presence comforted me as it had ever since she’d shown at our house the day after Caitlin disappeared.

I stood up as they approached my table-one in the corner and out of the way-and I shook the woman’s hand as Liann introduced us.

Up close, in the glow from the stage lights and neon beer signs on the wall, I saw that while my initial assessment was correct-the girl named Tracy was only about twenty years old-the years didn’t look like easy ones. Her hair looked thin and brittle from repeated bleachings, and lines were already forming at the corners of her mouth and eyes. She was thin but not in a healthy, youthful way. Instead she appeared tired and worn, like someone who didn’t sleep or eat right.

I offered to get everyone a drink, but Liann shook her head. They both sat down.

“We should get started,” Liann said. “Tracy has to work.”

I took my seat, my hands folded on the table.

“Okay, Tracy,” Liann said. “Go ahead.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “How do you two know each other?”

Tracy looked down at the tabletop. Liann turned to me and said, “We’re short on time here, Tom.”

“I understand that,” I said. “But I want to know where this information is coming from. Liann, you work with women and families who have been affected by violent crime. And you’re a lawyer. I want to know which role you met Tracy in.”

“Tom, Tracy has had some issues-”

“I got busted, okay?” Tracy said, raising her head to look at me. “I got busted for drugs, and Liann was my lawyer. She kept me out of jail.”

I nodded. “Okay, I get it.”

“It’s not really relevant,” Liann said. “Tell him what you saw, Tracy.”

Tracy took her time getting started. She reached into the gym bag and brought out a pack of cigarettes-Marlboro Lights-and a lighter. Once the cigarette was burning, she let a stream of smoke go up toward the ceiling, then waved her hand around out of consideration for Liann and me. The ceremony completed, Tracy fixed on me with a level gaze.

“I’ve seen you before,” she said. “I used to dance at the Love Shack, and you would come in there showing that picture of your little girl around. You showed it to me one night.” She took another drag, exhaled. “I have a little girl, too. She’s almost five. Cassie. She stays with my aunt while I work, but I see her sometimes.”