Jonathan Kellerman: Rage

“And no one’s noticing,” said her partner, Fernando Reyes, pointing to the stream of shoppers pouring in and out of the mall. People flowed around the little girl as if she were a piece of flotsam in a marina.

“Everyone probably figured they were horsing around,” said Kramer. “Dear God.”

Lara Malley had already viewed the tape through tears and hyperventilated breathing, and she didn’t recognize the two abductors.

“How can I?” she whimpered. “Even if I knew them, they’re so far away.”

Kramer and Reyes played it for her again. And again. Six more times. With each viewing, she shook her head more slowly. By the time a uniform entered the security room and announced “The father’s here,” the poor woman was nearly catatonic.

Figuring the video arcade attracted kids to the mall, the detectives brought in Galaxy’s owner and the two clerks who’d been on duty, brothers named Lance and Preston Kukach, acned, high-school dropout geeks barely out of their teens.

It took only a second for the owner to say, “The tape stinks but that’s Troy.” He was a fifty-year-old Caltech-trained engineer named Al Nussbaum, who’d made more money during three years of renting out video machines than a decade at the Jet Propulsion Labs. That day, he’d taken his own kids horseback riding, had come in to check the receipts.

“Which one’s Troy?” said Sue Kramer.

Nussbaum pointed to the smaller kid in the dark T-shirt. “He comes in all the time, always wears that shirt. It’s a Harley shirt, see the logo, here?”

His finger tapped the back of the tee. To Kramer and Reyes, the alleged winged logo was a faint gray smudge.

“What’s Troy ’s last name?” said Kramer.

“Don’t know, but he’s a regular.” Nussbaum turned to Lance and Preston. The brothers nodded.

Fernie Reyes said, “What kind of kid is he, guys?”

“Asshole,” said Lance.

“Caught him trying to steal scrip once,” said Preston. “He leaned over the counter right when I was there and grabbed a roll. When I took it away he tried to whale on me, but I kicked his butt.”

“And you let him come back ?” said Nussbaum.

The clerk flushed.

“We’ve got a policy,” Nussbaum told the detectives. “You steal, you’re out. Top of that, he hit you!”

Preston Kukach stared at the floor.

“Who’s the other one?” said Sue Kramer, pointing to the larger boy.

Preston kept his head down.

“If you know, spit it out,” Al Nussbaum demanded.

“Don’t know his name. He’s here once in a while, never plays.”

“What does he do?” said Sue Kramer.

“Hangs out.”

“With who?”

“ Troy.”

“Always Troy?”

“Yeah.”

“ Troy plays and this one hangs.”

“Yeah.”

Al Nussbaum said, “Now that you know who they are, why aren’t you going after them pronto, finding that kid?”

Reyes turned to the clerks. “What does hanging consist of?”

“He stands around while Troy plays,” said Lance.

“He ever try to steal?”

Head shakes from the Kukach brothers.

“Ever see either of them with little kids?”

“Nope,” said Lance.

“Never,” said Preston.

“What else can you tell us about them?” said Reyes.

Shrugs.

“Anything, guys. This is serious.”

“Spit it out,” said Al Nussbaum.

Lance said, “I dunno, but maybe they live close by.”

“Why do you say that?” said Sue Kramer.

“Because I seen ’em leaving and walking out to the parking lot and keep going onto the street. No one picked ’em up in a car, y’know?”

“Leaving at which exit?”

“The one that goes out to the parking lot.”

Al Nussbaum said, “Three exits go out to the parking lot, Lance.”

“The one near the garbage,” said Lance.

Fernie Reyes glanced at his partner and left.

No body in the Dumpsters out back near the eastern exit.

Five more hours of neighborhood canvass finally ID’d the two boys. Both of them lived in a low-income housing project set like a scar across the scrubby park that paralleled the rear of the mall. Two hundred shoddily built, federally financed one-bedroom units distributed among a quartet of three-story buildings, ringed by chain-link fencing in which dozens of holes had been cut. A scruffy, prisonlike place well known by uniforms who patrolled the area- 415 City, they called it, after the penal code for disturbing the peace.

The manager of Building 4 watched the video for a second and pointed to the smaller boy. “Troy Turner. You guys been out here before on him. Last week, matter of fact.”

“Really,” said Sue Kramer.

“Yeah. He smacked his mother with a dinner plate, busted up the side of her face.” The manager massaged his own unshaved cheek. “Before that, he was scaring some of the little kids.”

“Scaring them how?”

“Grabbing and shoving, waving a knife. You guys shoulda locked him up. So what’d he do?”

“Who’s the bigger one?” said Reyes.

“ Randolph Duchay. Kind of a retard but he doesn’t cause problems. He done something, it’s probably ’causea Troy.”

“How old are they?” said Fernie Reyes.

“Lemme see,” said the manager. “ Troy ’s twelve I think, maybe the other one’s thirteen.”

The detectives found the boys in the park.

There they were, sitting in the dark on some swings, smoking, the lighted ends of their cigarettes orange fireflies. Sue Kramer could smell the beer from yards away. As she and Reyes approached, Rand Duchay tossed his can of Bud onto the grass, but the smaller one, Troy Turner, didn’t even try to hide it.

Taking a deep swig as she came face-to-face with him. Staring right back at her with the coldest fuck-you eyes she’d seen in a long time.

Ignore the eyes and he was a surprisingly small, frail-looking kid with pipe-stem arms and a pale triangular face under a mop of untrimmed dirty-blond hair. He’d shaved his head clean at the sides, which made the top-growth look even bigger. The manager had said he was twelve; he could’ve passed for younger.

Randolph Duchay was good-sized and broad-shouldered, with wavy, short brown hair and a puffy, thick-lipped face plagued by wet-looking zits. His arms had already started to pop veins and show some definition. Him, Sue would’ve placed at fifteen or sixteen.

Big and scared. Sue’s flashlight picked up his fear right away, the sweat on his brow and nose. A bead of moisture rolled off his pimply chin. Repeated eyeblinks.

She moved right in on him, pointed a finger in his face. “Where’s Kristal Malley?”

Randolph Duchay shook his head. Started to cry.

“Where is she?” she demanded.

The kid’s shoulders rose and fell. He slammed his eyes shut and began rocking.

She hauled him to his feet. Fernie was doing the same to Troy Turner, asking the same question.

Turner tolerated being frisked with passivity. His face was as blank as a sidewalk.

Sue put pressure on Duchay’s arm. The kid’s biceps were rock hard; if he resisted he’d be a challenge. Her gun was on her hip, holstered, out of reach. “Where the hell is she, Randy.”

“ Rand,” said Troy Turner. “He ain’t no Randy.”

“Where’s Kristal, Rand?”

No response. She squeezed harder, dug her nails in. Duchay squawked and pointed to the left. Past the swings and across the play area to a pair of cinder-block public lavatories.

“She’s in the bathroom?” said Fernie Reyes.

Rand Duchay shook his head.