Fast Lane Page 3

I picked up Debra Singer’s photo. I couldn’t look away from her eyes. I found myself wishing I had kicked Craig Singer a good deal harder, and maybe a few more times in the mouth. A harsh wrap of knuckles sounded against my office door. I got up, opened it, and found a middle-aged woman standing there, breathing hard. I recognized her from the Singer family portrait.

  “You wouldn’t return my calls,” she said in a tight, forced voice. The rigid lines around her eyes and mouth were pronounced.

  “You must be Mrs. Singer.” I stepped aside to let her through. “Why don’t you come in and take a seat?”

  She faced me full on. She was thin, bony, blond hair streaked with gray and pulled away from her face. Her elbows looked sharp enough to cut paper. She glanced quickly around the office, moved to a chair and sat down.

  I sat back at my desk. I couldn’t help noticing her neck. While the rest of her visible skin was pulled up tight, her neck was long and thin and webbed with sagging flesh. Next time she had a face-lift, she should look into doing something about that.

  “Sorry about not returning your calls. I only got back to the office a few minutes ago. I’ve been out all night looking for your daughter.”

  She didn’t say anything. Just sat there glaring at me. “What can I do for you?” I asked.

  “I think you know.”

  I blinked at her. “I’m sorry, I really don’t have any idea—”

  “My husband’s in the hospital!”

  “No kidding?” I let my eyes grow wide. “I saw him only yesterday morning. What happened to him?”

  “Craig claims he fell down the stairs.” She lowered her eyes. “His doctor thinks he was punched in the face and kicked several times in the chest.” She turned back to me. “Facial fractures, three broken ribs, two teeth knocked out.”

  And a partridge in a pear tree.

  “So you’d like me to find out who did this to him?” I asked sincerely. “Do you know what he could’ve done to deserve that kind of beating?”

  For a while all she could do was stare at me. “He told me he’s not coming home when he gets out of the hospital,” she finally murmured.

  “Well now—”

  “We hired you to find our daughter, not to split up our family!”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand—”

  “Where’s my daughter? Craig said you found her. Why isn’t she home?”

  “He must be confused,” I said. “Probably from his fall. I did speak to friends of hers who’ve seen her. She’s having a pretty rough time, and when I do find her and bring her home she needs you to listen to her and—”

  “My daughter lives in a fantasy world,” she said. “Debra’s always making up ridiculous stories. You surely didn’t believe any of her nonsense?”

  “And what nonsense might that be?”

  Mrs. Singer started to say something, choked it back and looked away. “We made a mistake hiring you,” she said. “Why don’t we consider you fired?”

  I shrugged. “Fine with me. I’m still going to find her, though. And when I do, I’m going to make sure she’s safe.”

  “You leave my daughter alone!” She sprung from her chair, face livid, bony hands clenched into fists. “You understand me? Leave my daughter alone!” She didn’t wait for me to answer. She turned and fled from the office, the door slamming behind her.

  I felt a little shaky inside, wondering what good it would do to find Debra Singer. There didn’t seem to be much point in it, at least none I could see. As I reached in my bottom desk drawer for a bottle of rye, a soft knocking interrupted me. My office door opened and a young girl peeked in.

  “Hi,” she said. “I’m Mary Williams. We have an eleven o’clock appointment?”

  I apologized for keeping her waiting and asked her to come in. As she entered the office, I felt a funny feeling start to kick in my chest. It was more than just the way she looked, though. More than just her slender body, or her soft brown eyes, or the way her long black hair flowed past her shoulders. There was a freshness to her, a sweetness. I realized that for the first time in God knows how long I was actually feeling pretty good and it surprised the hell out of me.

  “I read your column every month,” she said, looking around her. “This office is so cool. Exactly the way I pictured it.”

  “Yeah, it’s not much, is it?”

  “It’s perfect!” she said. “Just like a detective’s office ought to be.”

  “That’s certainly good to hear,” I said. “Otherwise, I guess I’d need to find a new job.” A little red tinged her cheeks. “I hope you weren’t waiting out there too long.”

  “Not too long.”

  “But long enough?”

  She shifted in her chair. “I’m sorry,” she said. She fidgeted for a moment with her handbag. “I couldn’t help overhearing what was being said. I guess I have the opposite problem of the woman who was just here.”

  “You’re sexually abusing your father?”

  “What?”

  I shook my head, waving off my comment. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I’ve been having a rotten couple of days.”

  “He’s abusing his daughter? Is that why you beat him up?”

  “No,” I corrected her. “That’s why he fell down a staircase.”

  She spotted the pictures on my desk. “Is that her?” she asked, a concerned look forming on her face. “That poor girl.”

  I gathered up the photos and dropped them into my bottom desk drawer, next to the rye. “Miss. Williams, how can I help you?”

  “Please call me Mary.”

  “Okay, Mary.”

  “I’d like you to find my parents.”

  “You lost them?”

  “In a way.” She stared at her hands, a darkness clouding her eyes. “I was adopted. I’d like to hire you to find my birth parents. How much do you charge?”

  “Four hundred a day, plus expenses.”

  She looked up at me, surprised and disappointed. “I didn’t think it would be that much. I’ve been saving up, but I don’t think I’ll have enough if it takes more than a week.”

  “How long have you been saving?”

  She gave me a dejected smile. “Two semesters.”

  “You’re a student?”

  “Trying to be. I’m a sophomore at Denver University.”

  I asked her what she’d been doing to save up for this, and she looked away, sort of embarrassed, and told me she’d been working nights at a convenience store. After more prompting, she told me she was putting herself through school. Her parents wanted to pay, but she didn’t think that would be fair, not with her getting a job so she could hire a detective and the way they felt about it. From what she told me, I gathered they weren’t too thrilled with the idea of her searching for her birth parents.

  Watching her explain her situation, I wanted to break out laughing. Not out of meanness or anything, only cause of how sweet it was. I mean, here she was going to college all day and working her butt off all night so she could hire a detective to find her parents. I found it touching. I needed a case like this. I needed something where I could do some good for a change. Especially after the last few cases I’d worked on. Anyway, as my poppa used to say: it never hurt none to do a pretty young gal a favor. I told her I’d charge her fifty dollars a day with expenses coming out of my own pocket. Her face lit up brighter than any Christmas tree. I sat back and enjoyed the sight.

  “If you don’t mind,” I said, “I might write about this for my newspaper column.”

  “That would be exciting.” She lowered her voice, her face reddening a bit. “I’ve been saving your columns for a long time.”

  “Well, then, why don’t we get started? How much do you know about your birth parents?”

  “Nothing. When I was twelve my parents told me I was adopted. I was a baby when they got me. I don’t have any memories of my biological parents.”

  “This may sound silly, but do your parents know who your birth parents
are?”

  She shook her head.

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.” She pushed her chin out slightly, challenging me to argue with her. “They got me through an agency. They don’t even know what state I came from.”

  I found a pen on my desk and pushed the cap off. “Why don’t you give me the name of the agency?”

  She looked at me blankly and said after a while, “My parents never told me it.”

  “I’ll need to see your parents. Why don’t we set something up for tonight?”

  “I don’t want them involved.” She let out a lungful of air through her mouth. “It will upset them. They think I’m rejecting them as it is. Frank and Julie are wonderful. I love them and think of them as my parents, and I’ll always think of them as my parents, whatever happens. But that doesn’t mean I don’t need to find out who I really am. They just can’t understand that.”

  “I need to talk with them, Mary. Otherwise I’m stuck right now.”

  She struggled with the idea. “Could you maybe just give them a quick call?” she offered as a compromise.

  “Sorry, no. I need to talk with them face to face. I’d just as soon find your birth parents for you as quickly as possible.”

  That settled it for her. She nodded slightly and asked if it would be okay if I came over at six thirty. “I have to be at work at eight,” she added.

  “Six thirty’s fine.”

  She fidgeted some more with her bag. “How much should I pay you?”

  “I’ll bill you later. Just write down your parent’s address for me. Also, I’m going to need a picture of you. If nothing else, it will look good on my desk.”

  “I’d like to pay you a two week retainer,” she said. “It will make me feel like I’m really doing this.”

  I didn’t argue. I could see it was important to her. She wrote me a check and then gave me directions to her parent’s house. She held out her hand to me. It was a nice hand to hold. I felt sorry letting it go.

  After she left, I sat back and realized I was feeling better than I had felt in quite a while. There was no reason to worry about what I almost did to Craig Singer.

  Not much else happened that afternoon. Eddie Braggs called from the Examiner, asking whether my ‘Fast Lane’ feature would be ready on time and after that, I drove around Denver looking for Debra Singer without any luck.

  Chapter 3

  Mary’s parents lived in Golden, a small town fifteen miles west of Denver, in a cozy little house on a dead-end street. It had a picket fence, trimmed hedges and a small flower garden out front. Mary answered the door, and after introducing me to Lucy, the family golden retriever, she led me into the living room where her parents were waiting. Her mother popped up from the sofa and offered me coffee and pastries. After Mrs. Williams left the room, Mary handed me an envelope. Inside were a studio photograph and several wallet-sized shots of herself. She looked tired as she sat down on a loveseat that was to the right of sofa. Lucy followed her and plopped down by her feet. I took the green velvet armchair with the old-fashioned doilies.

  After Mary’s mother brought in the coffee, she joined her husband on the sofa. They were in their early forties, around my age, although they looked quite a bit older than me.

  Mrs. Williams took a sip of coffee before looking up. “I know Mary’s very excited about hiring you,” she said.

  Mary made a face. “Mother,” she muttered under her breath.

  “She’s been cutting out your columns for as long as I can remember,” Mrs. Williams continued, her hands folded in her lap. “They’re saved in a scrap book. She must’ve been planning on hiring you for a long time.”

  Mary started to say something, stopped herself and stared off into a corner.

  “This must be very important to her,” said Mrs. Williams.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I agreed. “I know it is.” I noticed a photo on the wall of Mary when she was probably no older than ten. She was thin and tan, her long brown hair reaching half way to her waist. I had to clear my throat before turning back to her mother. “I’m hoping you can help me and tell me the name of the agency that handled Mary’s adoption?”

  “We’d do anything to help our daughter,” Mrs. Williams said, her voice trembling.

  Mr. Williams pushed himself out of his chair and left the room. While he was gone, Mrs. Williams offered me more coffee. When her husband came back, he handed me a folder. “Mary said you’d be needing this. I made a copy,” he said.

  I went through the folder. A downtown Denver law firm had handled Mary’s adoption. “Don’t know if they’re still in business,” Mr. Williams remarked sullenly. “It was twenty years ago.”

  “They’re still around.” I’d dealt with the firm before. “Do you know anything about Mary’s birth parents?”

  “No,“ Mrs. Williams said. “Mary was only a couple of months old when we got her. We think of her exactly as if she were our own.”

  “And I think of you as my mom!” Mary cut in, her eyes growing moist. “I love both of you! But that doesn’t mean I don’t need to know where I came from!”

  Mrs. Williams lowered her head. “Of course it doesn’t, dear.”

  I stood up. “I’d like to thank both of you for your help.” Then to Mary, “I’ll let you know when I find something more.”

  She looked drained. “I better get ready for work. Thanks for coming, Mr. Lane.”

  “Johnny,” I said.

  “Johnny,” she agreed. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

  “Why don’t you get ready, dear?” Mrs. Williams said. “I’ll show Mr. Lane out. I’d like to talk with him for a minute.”

  Mary didn’t look too happy, but she didn’t argue. She left the room, Lucy following her, wagging her tail, her body brushing against Mary’s.

  Mrs. Williams smelled faintly of bathroom deodorant. She touched my arm in a conspiratorial sort of way. “I’d like to pay for this,” she said.

  “I’m sorry. Your daughter and I have already made an arrangement. I think it’s important for her to do this herself.”

  “My daughter’s a very stubborn girl,” she said, more to herself than to me. “This hurts,” she confided. “I know it shouldn’t. I understand why Mary’s doing it. It still hurts, though.”

  I got to the door. I muttered something polite. Mrs. Williams stopped me. “I wish you could say something to her,” she said, an almost desperate pleading in her eyes. “But of course it wouldn’t do any good.” She sighed. “When Mary makes up her mind, there’s nothing anyone can do to change it.”

  I agreed with her.

  When I got home I checked in with my answering service. There was one message. Rude wanted me to see some fresh meat he had locked away in a freezer.

  * * * * *

  It was a slow night at the strip club. A handful of customers were seated around the stage watching a chunky brunette move sluggishly to a tired beat. When she slipped out of her panties, it was a completely mechanical motion. She could’ve been frying burgers at a fast food joint. The tables were all empty, except for one in the back where Rude was sitting, sipping coke from a can. He waved me over. The bluish green scorpion tattoo on his forearm wriggled its stinger, welcoming me.

  “How much you willing to pay for some fresh meat?” he asked.

  “Fifty dollars?”

  He gave me a disgusted look. “That’s not even fifty cents a pound. Make it two hundred.”

  I didn’t bother arguing. I paid him. He flipped though the bills, not really paying attention. “I do all the work and you get all the glory,” he said.

  “Tough life, isn’t it? Where is she?”

  “Haven’t finished my coke.” He took another slow drag on the can. “What do you think of Candy?” he asked, nodding towards the dancer on stage.

  I took a quick look and caught her stifling a yawn as she lifted a leg. “Doesn’t look like she’s putting out much effort,” I said.

  Rude frowned. “I can’t underst
and that type of work ethic.”

  “Yeah, it’s a shame.”

  “Damn right.” Rude drained the rest of his coke and threw the can at the dancer. She ducked and sent Rude a nasty glare. “You better show some life up there,” he yelled at her. “Or I’ll boot your fat ass out the door.” A couple of customers hooted in agreement. Candy started shaking her body a little more energetically, her small black eyes smoldering with anger.

  “You gotta help put some passion into their work,” Rude said with a wink. “Let me give you what you paid for.”

  I followed him to a storage closet in the back of the bar. He unlocked it and showed me Debra Singer sitting on the floor, knees pulled tight to her chest. By her feet were a sandwich, a bag of potato chips and a can of coke. She glanced up at me, her eyes small blue ice chunks, then looked away.

  “Came by a couple of hours ago looking for employment,” Rude said. “I’d like you to know, I’m not charging you for the food.”

  “You got a heart of gold.” I crouched next to Debra. My heart was pounding. I said to her, “I wish you had stayed put. I promised you I’d take care of things.”

  “I’m not going back,” she murmured weakly.

  “He’s not home. He’s in a hospital now.”

  She turned to me, eyes wide.

  “I guess he fell down a staircase. If you ever see him again, give me a call and I promise you he’ll fall down a much longer and steeper one.”

  Tears burst out of her. I helped her to her feet. Her shoulders seemed so tiny and frail that I worried they might crumble into dust. As I walked her out of the place, Rude got next to me, looking sheepish.

  “You’re going to write about this, right?”

  “Any reason I shouldn’t?”

  He licked his lips, watching me carefully. “You going to mention how I really found her?”

  “You want me to?”

  He lowered his eyes. “It would be a nice thing to send my mom.”

  I pretended to consider it and then shook my head. “Sorry, I’d have to make a few editorial changes. I wouldn’t want my readers knowing I associate with the likes of you. It could hurt my image.”

  Of course I wasn’t planning on writing about it. I couldn’t afford to. Not with my agreement with Craig Singer. But it didn’t mean I couldn’t needle Rude. As I left with Debra, I heard him suggest what I could do with my column. I don’t see much point in spelling out the details, not with them being as vulgar as they were.