Chapter 14
A little later
“Martin Harrison Driscoll,”Grant Miller said. “Approached an off-duty male officer early this morning and offered sex.” Despite his long night, Miller looked rested, his uniform neat and pressed, and his hair looked freshly cut. “We put him in a cell by himself because some of the other guys we picked up on other charges are homophobes and threatened to beat his ass. When I got here and saw his name, I remembered it from when he and Chelsea ran away.”
“Oh, Martin,” Elaine whispered. The gaunt, hard-faced young man seated in the interview room behind the one-way looking glass stared back as if he could see her. Several days stubble dotted his face, his long sleeve shirt hung on him and his fingers tugged at the small hoop earring dangling from his left ear. His hair was nearly as pale as Elaine’s but the black streaks at his temples proved it was a bleach job.
“I told him I had someone who wanted to talk to him, and he gave me attitude with a capital A, so be careful,” Miller warned. “You may not get anything out of him.”
“Did you run his prints?” Griff asked.
“Yeah,” Miller affirmed. “Oddly enough, we only got one hit for assault in Wisconsin. Two years ago, some guy claimed Driscoll beat him up and robbed him but then refused to press charges. My guess is he was afraid his family would find out he’d approached a male prostitute. Wisconsin said someone bailed Driscoll out and they never saw him again.”
“I’ll talk to him now,” Elaine told him, watching the youth lower his gaze to the table. “Griff, would you wait out here, please?”
“Whatever you want, Elaine.”
She smiled and followed Miller into the room but waited until he was gone before she spoke. “Hi, Martin. Do you remember me?”
He looked up from his study of the battered table to give her a cursory glance, the surprise widened his blue eyes, and his mouth fell open. But just as quickly, his lips pulled into a dismissive sneer. “Well, fuck,” he snarled. “Goody-two shoes Prescott is here. What do you want, bitch?”
Heart aching for him and everything he must have been through, Elaine kept it simple. “It’s good to see you again, Martin.”
“It’s Marty, bitch. That stupid cop didn’t tell me it was you.”
Someone pounded on the glass, but Elaine waved for it to stop. “O.K., Marty. Officer Miller and I are friends. He remembers your name from when you and Chelsea ran away and tried to help find you. That’s why he called me.”
“Bully for him.” Marty stuck out his tongue. “That for a cop,” he challenged. “I got nothing to say. To you or any cop.”
“Okay,” Elaine said. “Let’s cut to the chase, then. When is the last time you saw or heard from Chelsea?”
“Why should I tell you shit?”
“Because she’s my cousin and I love her,” Elaine said simply. “I’d like to bring her home. Can you–would you tell me where she is?”
“What’s in it for me?” Marty challenged again. “Nothing.”
“Wouldn’t you like your parents to know that you’re alive and well?” Elaine answered. “They’ve never stopped looking for you.”
“Ha!” Marty snorted. “That’s a laugh.” Rage contorted his features. “They never even tried to find me.”
“But they did,” Elaine corrected. “They’ve never stopped looking or working with the police. They even put up a website and kept it going all this time. On it, they begged you to call them and said they’d come get you no matter where you were.”
“Bullshit.” But Marty’s tone had less conviction now. “I went by the house the other day and saw them playing croquet in the back yard. They looked perfectly happy to me.”
“But they’re not,” Elaine put as much gentleness in her voice as she could. “They’re still looking for you. They update the site every week with photos and stories. Here, look.”
She took out her phone and found the page entitled, “Come Home Martin,” and handed it to him. Recipes, family gossip and photos filled the screen, along with requests for anyone who’d seen or talked to Martin to please call the listed number.
At first, he remained stony-faced as he scrolled across it. Then his lips trembled into the tiniest of smiles. “Grandma Driscoll put her salsa recipe here? She always swore she’d never reveal it.”
“I remember that salsa,” Elaine said, hoping to coax more from him. “Regular and hot–I could never handle that one, even with a bowl full of chips.”
“But she didn’t list the secret ingredient here.” Marty’s smile broadened. “I’m the only one of us kids who knows what it is.”
He scrolled again, chuckling at some of the things, frowning at others. Then he stopped and blinked hard. “Oh, man,” he whispered. “Frosty.”
Elaine leaned over to look at the photo. In what must have been Martin’s old room, a miniature Schnauzer was curled up on the bed. After it, a photo showed a younger Martin and much younger Frosty, sleeping together, the dog nestled under the boy’s arm, wearing a look of utter bliss.
“Your parents have tried to get him to sleep somewhere else,” Elaine said. “It didn’t work.”
“He won’t remember me,” Marty replied woodenly.
“Dogs don’t forget,” Elaine told him. “He’d know you in a heartbeat.”
“Bullshit!” Marty threw the phone at her. She ducked and it hit the floor as he surged to his feet and grabbed his chair, holding it in front of him as if holding back an enemy.
“Just tell me where Chelsea is,” Eliane pleaded as the door behind her swung open. “Please.”
“Go away! Just leave me the fuck alone, will ya? Stop playing therapist with me!”
He raised the chair, but Griff vaulted over the table and tackled him, taking them both to the ground, the chair breaking beneath them. Miller was right behind and pulled the sobbing Marty up and cuffed him. A grim-faced Griff stood, kicked aside the pieces of the chair, his breathing ragged. “You little prick,” he growled.
“That just got you an assault charge,” Miller promised through gritted teeth, his arms secure around Marty’s thin chest. “Raises your bail considerably. Let’s see if your boss, if you have one, has come to pay it yet.”
“Go to hell!” Marty sobbed, squirming against Miller’s grip but he was no match for the man’s strength. The sergeant half-dragged, half carried him from the room.
“Wow,” Elaine exclaimed. “That was some tackle. Did you play intervarsity football as well as baseball?”
“All four years,” he gasped, coming to sit on the table’s edge and massage his knee. “Study load was too demanding for the real thing, and I preferred playing for fun anyway. Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I ducked in time.
But then she found she was trembling, and Griff reached for her hand, gently helping her to her feet.
“C’mon,” he whispered. “There’s a chapel down the hall. “Let’s go sit there and talk.”
He wrapped his arm around her waist, but it took a moment for him to steady himself. “Are you sure you can walk?” she ventured to tease. “That was a hell of a tackle.”
“I’ll be fine,” he said, but his mouth set in a tight line, suggested otherwise. “Let’s go.”
At the chapel door, he turned the open sign around to show it was occupied, led her in and closed the door.
“Why wouldn’t he talk to me?” she sighed as they sat in the nearest pew. “I just wanted to know where Chelsea was. I wasn’t judging him, was I?”
“He’s hard, Elaine,” Griff said. “You’re probably the first person who’s been nice to him in God knows how long.”
“I should have known he’d be defensive and surly,” Elaine argued. “I’m trained to know that. To know how to talk to victimized kids like him.”
“He’s not a kid anymore and hasn’t been one for a long time,” Griff reminded her. “Who knows what hell he’s been through? He probably knows every trick in the book if you’ll pardon the obvious analogy. Unless there’s something in it for him, he’s not going to tell us jack shit. He was going to hurt you.”
“He was such a happy-go-lucky kid,” Elaine blinked hard, determined not to cry. “Always hanging out at Chelsea’s house with Frosty, crazy about hip-hop, reggae, jazz dancing, and thanks to her parents, ’60’s rock and roll. He and Chelsea were more best buds than sweethearts.”
She propped her elbows on the pew in front of her and buried her face in her hands. “I just want to find Chelsea,” she said. “Bring her and those other girls home.”
“And we will,” he whispered, leaning forward to brush his lips against her hair. “We’re getting close to finding them.”
She lifted her head and he dabbed at her tear-bright eyes with his fingers while fumbling inside his jacket pocket with his other hand. “Crap,” he muttered. Did it again.”
“What?” Seated this close, she could breathe in the marvelous scent of him. “You didn’t–?”
“Forgot my handkerchief,” he admitted ruefully but there were the beginnings of a twinkle in his eyes. “Oh, well. In the Marines they always taught us to use what we have.”
His mouth moving along her eyes was a soft brushing sensation. She slid her arms up his back as his lips moved around her face.
“Did anyone ever tell you,” he murmured, “that your tears taste good?”
“I’m not crying,” she said solemnly. “But tell me anyway. What do they taste like?”
“Sweet,” he said, his lips continuing their exploration. “But a little tart, like flowered honey.”
Her heart galloped in a frenzied tempo. “Do you suppose my lips taste like that?”
He pulled back a bit and frowned. “I guess, for the sake of research, I should find out. I really wasn’t paying attention the last time I kissed you.”
Leaning in again, he moved his mouth over hers, slowly, deliberately, inching across the space as if he were savoring the taste of her. Sighing, Elaine pulled him closer and began her own exploration. His mouth tasted of cream-laced coffee and oh-so faintly of cinnamon.
A low groan escaped him, and he deepened his kiss, as if he were starving and she was his banquet. His hands moved to stroke her hair, feathering his fingers through it. “Elaine,” he whispered. “Oh man–”
The bright cheery notes of a cell phone sounded and with a muffled curse, he pulled away. He jerked the phone from his jacket pocket and gave a low whistle. “It’s Silas Clark,” he said.
“You gave Silas Clark your phone number?” Elaine was aghast.
“No, ding-a-ling. Special phone.” He hit accept, and the speaker. “Abernathy.”
“It’s Silas Clark,” the voice identified. “I need to talk to you. In person and today.”
“What about?” Griff said and winked as Elaine mouthed, “‘ding-a-ling’?”
“Some good stuff about TheHoneys,” Clark replied. “Because they’re here and–”
“They’re here?” Griff and Elaine exchanged looks. “When?”
“Got here late Wednesday night,” Clark said. “The folks watching out for ‘em say they’ve all been down with flu or something female, so they didn’t let me know until this morning that they were starting to feel better. But we need to meet ‘cause I’ve got a chance for us to make more money.”
“I like making money,” Griff’s tone was professionally affable. “Where and when?”
“This afternoon, four o’clock, downtown at The Main Place. I’ll be at a table near that statue of that woman and man.”
“You mean the Burn Memorial? The statue of representative Harry T. Burn whose mother convinced him to cast the deciding vote that got women the vote?” Griff raised an eyebrow at Elaine, and she nodded.
“I just know it’s of a woman and a seated man,” Clark said dismissively. “And bring that woman with you. The one who came to the club with you.”
“You mean my colleague, Ms. Jones?”
“Yeah. The hottie,” Clark cackled. “I like looking at a woman with really long legs, you know?”
“Yeah, I do.” Griff managed to get out the words without choking, his features contorted, and Elaine realized how hard he was fighting not to laugh. “We’ll see you at four o’clock.”
He ended the call to release a howl of laughter. When he finally stopped, she cocked her head and hoped she sounded at least a little bit irritated. “So first I’m a ding-a-ling and now I’m a hottie?”
His grin was heart-stopping. “My dad’s favorite endearment for my mom when she asked an obvious question.”
“I’ll bet,” Elaine retorted but couldn’t help returning his grin. “So, what are we going to do now, ‘Mr. Abernathy’?”
He raised her to her feet, then groaned as his knee gave away. “Give me a minute, there, Ms. Jones,” he pleaded.
“What am I going to do with you?” she scolded. “Do I need to get you a cane?”
“Naw, I’ll be okay,” he said, pulling himself upright. “Maybe this will make it better.”
He kissed her again. Quickly but thoroughly and leaving Elaine aching for more.
“Okay, first,” he announced, slipping his arm around her waist. “I’m not sorry about that kiss. But we can talk about it later.”
“Right,” Elaine said. “But not too much later.”
“Agreed. Now, we’re gonna tell Miller about our little meet-and-greet with good ole Silas, so we’ve got back-up in place and he’s in the loop. Not good to have our favorite cop mad at us. Then we’ll go wake up Patrick. He’d never forgive us if we left him out of this.”
“And then?” she asked, wanting this moment alone with him to last just a little longer.
Anticipation curved his mouth into a devilish smile. “I’m gonna put some ice on my knee and keep my leg up for a bit. After that, we’ll wire up and put on our disguises. So, come on, Miss Hottie. Let’s go have some fun with Silas Clark.