Chapter 1 - The Baby in the Bag

Chapter 1

I was really nervous while I waited in the Green Room, back stage on the “Tonight Show”. This was my first time on television and I was invited to appear because I’d written a short novel about surfing that was then made into a movie. I remember watching the wall-mounted monitor as Jay’s first guest, the handsome movie star Rock Studstones, looking larger than life, appeared to promote his latest block buster action movie.

Jay made the introduction. ”Please welcome a good friend of the Tonight Show, Rock Studstones!”

The curtain parted and Rock peacocked out, giving that little pistol finger point over to Kevin, the band leader.

Rock looked super cool in his tailored black blazer, designer blue jeans and white skin tight shirt, his highlighted pecks appearing as if they were made of hard plastic, which they probably were.

As the audience screamed its approval Rock strutted over to Jay, looking like the big dog in the proverbial junkyard. They shook hands and gave each other a friendly hug, like old friends do. And I had to follow that!

Jay continued, “Rock, it’s always good to see you. How are you, my friend?”

“I’m fantastik Jay,” Rock replied, in his Austrian accent.

“You look great. I see you’ve been working out.”

“Ya, you know, I do vat I can to look good for da ladies.”

“Speaking of ladies, how’s your girlfriend, Chi Chi Gigante?”

“Jay, you kan’t believe everyding you read in da tabloids. We are nodding but best friends, you know.”

“Best friends with benefits!”

The audience chuckled, wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

Rock smiled his electric silky-smooth used car salesman way. You know the kind that seems three quarters genuine and one quarter deceitful. Man, was he cool.

“So Rock, tell me about your new movie. I love the title, ‘Everyone Dies’”.

“Ya Jay, it’s an action movie. The main character, me, is a mild manner account, Jack Numbers. He stumbles across a money laundering scheme and discovers you know, dat da money is koing to a group of midget terrorists who vant to destroy da world.”

“Dwarfs want to destroy the world? Sounds like a really short story!”

That Jay, he really cracked me up with that one.

“Why do they want to do that?” Jay continued.

“Day are angry because all da fast food chains super size everyding. Da leader of da midgets, Jumbo Shrimp, had a terrible incident vid a super-sized meal. He fell into da drink cup and almost drowned.”

“Oh waiter, what’s that dwarf doing in my drink?”

“The back stroke!” the audience yelled back, da dum.

“So, you take on the dwarf terrorists?”

“Ya, da’s vight.”

“I watched a preview earlier and I really enjoyed it. But there seems to be a lot of gratuitous violence.”

“True. I vouldn’t recommend taking da kiddies. Vait for da video game.”

“Who else stars in it?”

“Jay, we have a great kast. The beautiful Martha Pumphandle plays my love interest and da African-Mexican actor, Pacito Jones plays Jumbo Shrimp.”

“Alright, well, let’s take a look at a clip. Do you need to set this scene up?”

“Ya Jay, in dis scene I’m in da terrorists’ secret underground hideout. I’ve been captured and tied to a conveyor belt dat’s slowly winding toward a buzz saw, you know.”

“Sounds like the Lilliputians have an axe to grind. Let’s take a look,” Jay said, swiveling his chair to see the flat screen behind him.

The monitor cuts to the clip. I watched the scene. And like Rock said, he’s tied to a slow moving belt headed toward a spinning screaming buzz saw. I couldn’t see the dwarf terrorists. All I could see were the tops of their heads, little hands and arms flailing from behind that belt, looking like a wheat field waving behind a fence.

“Well, Jack Numbers, seems as if you’ve met your match,” Jumbo Shrimp said, even though I couldn’t see him.

“Ha! It vill take more dan you to best me. I vill never let you destroy da world.”

“Soon you’ll be cut down to size, Jack Numbers.”

“I do not dink so. You vill always be half da man I am.”

I watched as Rock wiggled his hand free and using his diamond studded Rolex sliced away his ropes, sprang off the belt, somersaulting as he did, wrestled free a machine gun from one of the small guards and began spraying bullets all around. The dwarf terrorists scampered away to hide behind scattered boxes and in the darkened corners, like cockroaches suddenly caught in the light. All the while Rock was screaming, “Hasta luego, you vittle terrorists.”

Afterward, the audience exploded with cheers and applause.

“Mr. Attola? You’re on after the next commercial break,” one of Jay’s interns then informed me.

I looked up to the monitor just in time to hear Jay say, “We’ll be right back with the author Parc Attola after this commercial break.”

So, I followed the intern to the back of the stage and waited. I could feel the sweat begin to gather under my arm pits, like dew hanging from a tree. I was glad I wore a tee shirt.

“Okay, Mr. Attola, once we come back, Jay’ll introduce you. After he does, walk on out, over to Jay and take the seat next to his desk.”

Finally, we’re back on air.

“You may not know my next guest, but he wrote the novel ‘Bigger than Big Wednesday’ that’s just been made into a movie and it’s getting rave reviews. Please welcome Parc Attola!”

That was my queue. I swallowed hard, feeling my neck muscles push down the little saliva I had like a snake choking down a rat, and walked out into the bright lights. I couldn’t see the audience. All I saw was a black abyss. Yet, I could feel hundreds of eyes scanning over me. I wanted to be cool too, so I gave Kevin that same pistol finger point. Kevin looked at me like I’d just peed in his corn flakes. It wasn’t a good start.

I walked over to Jay and we shook hands. His was cool and dry. Mine was wet and clammy. As I walked around his desk and sat down, I noticed Jay wiping his hand on his pants. Rock was sitting next to me. So, I shook hands with Rock and said, “Midget terrorists, man that’s too funny.”

Rock merely nodded his head in that you’re a loser kind of way.

“Parc, welcome to the Tonight Show.”

“Thanks Jay,” I said, as polite clapping dribbled from the audience.

“I’ve read your book,” Jay continued. ”I thought it was very exciting and emotional. Are you a surfer?”

“Yeah, but I’m not very good. Not much surf in Florida.”

“Accept during the hurricanes!”

More laughter.

“So, how does it feel to see your book on the big screen?”

“Well Jay,” I began, crossing my legs and noticing the lint on my dark socks, “it’s not exactly the same story. After I sold the rights, the producers told me that there needed to be some changes, to appeal to a wider audience.”

“Oh really? What changes did they make?”

“Well, for one thing, there’re no Killer Whales off the Florida coast. Also, in my novel, the main character doesn’t drive a Ferrari.” I continued, uncrossing my legs and sitting back. ”He’s a sixteen-year-old kid, abandoned by his father as his mother struggles to make a living and raise him to be a man. And he definitely doesn’t hang out with Laird Hamilton. But, the producers thought the movie needed a big name surfer in it. They even have the kid involved with the pop star, Britney Spirits.”

“How’d that make you feel when you heard about that?”

“Like a virgin in a prison shower with a new bar of soap!”

The audience actually laughed at that one as Jay tee-heed like he sometimes does when he hears a sexual innuendo. Things were looking up.

“What a crazy world,” Jay commented.

“Yes it is, with the war and everything,” I replied, trying to make small talk, as old friends do.

“Speaking of the war, what do you think is the number one problem facing this country?”

“Well Jay, it may not be as important to everyone as, say, the war, but I’d like to see universal health care.”

The audience clapped approvingly. So, I continued, encouraged.

“I mean, I can’t understand how the richest country in the world can’t provide decent health care for its citizens. People can’t afford prescription drugs any more. They now have to go to Canada or Wal-Mart to buy them.”

“Kevin, you know something about drugs and Canada.”

The audience snickered as Kevin smiled at Jay.

“Parc, do you smoke pot?”

“I’ll take the fifth on that one. By the way, Kevin, is it 4:20 yet?”

Now the audience began to whoop and holler, cheer and clap. Things were going great. I was funny and the audience seemed to like me.

“What would you do about the war?” Jay continued.

“I don’t know Jay. I’m not a movie star.”

Oops! Well, that did it. I never should’ve mentioned the war or dissed the Hollywood elite. That’s when I’d inadvertently stepped over that line into the thick sand of politically incorrect free speech. This is where my story actually begins.

After my slight of the beautiful people, Jay, I guess, wanted to stir things up. He turned to Rock and said, “Rock, haven’t you come out against the war?”

“Da, I have,” Rock answered, his square chin jutting forward from beneath his mouth, looking like Mount Rushmore. ”Da Bush administration has done noding but lie to da American people. Da President stole da election and his fascist regime has driven dis country down da vong path, you know. I know for a fact dat dis President planned 911 to get us into da vor.”

Now, I try to stay out of politics as much as I can. In my opinion, all politicians really want is to attain and maintain power, kind of like organized religion. I’m convinced that they really don’t care about anything else. But, I couldn’t let this go.

“Rock,” I turned and said, “didn’t you say that if the President was elected, you’d move out of the country? Yet, here you are. What’s with that?”

The audience became silent. It felt like I’d farted during a church sermon. Jay sat there looking like the cat that’d swallowed the canary.

“I vas speaking metaphorically, you know. I can do more to fight dis vicked administration vight here.”

“Get out. You’re just like that other actor who raged about getting out the vote. And he wasn’t even registered. What a bunch of hypocrites.”

Oops again! But, that did actually feel good to say.

“Now Parc,” Jay said, trying to regain a modicum of control.

But I couldn’t stop. I felt the situation going down hill and like a drowning man reaching for a life preserver I struggled to regain the audiences’ approval.

“What kind of name is Rock Studstones anyway? Sounds like you’ve got pebbles for stones.” Hey, I thought it was funny. Nobody else did as the silence from the audience grew steadily louder.

“Ha dare you!” Rock responded, his ears turning red.

“Yes I do, you pussy.” I really had no idea where that came from.

“Vat did you call me?”

“A pussy.”

“Vi I ought to.”

“Stand up Nancy and I’ll shove my foot so far up your ass, you’ll be tasting my toe jam for a week!”

They cut to a commercial after that and my time on the “Tonight Show” ended. Jay called for security. Rock gave me the finger, even after I’d asked him for his autograph, and I already had the twenty dollars he charges right in my sweaty hand. They wouldn’t even let me stick around and listen to the musical guest, the Pewbs. The only person who said anything nice to me was Kevin, and all he said was “Goodbye”.

“The Baby in the Bag, A Politically Incorrect Tale”

By Doug Hanau

Website: authorsden.com/doughanau

Smell of Death by Marilyn Meredith

Smell of Death by Marilyn Meredith

Chapter 1


7:15 A.M.

WHEN RESPONDING TO a suspicious circumstance call, Officer Stacey Wilbur was met on the sidewalk by the reporting party, an elderly woman identified as Mrs. Lindhall. Stacey slid from the seat of her police unit and, as she stood, tucked a wisp of honey blonde hair into the barrette that held the remainder of her locks in a neat loop at the nape of her neck.

Mrs. Lindhall towered above Stacey’s five-foot-four inches as she joined the policewoman on the small square of Bermuda grass in front of a tiny stucco cottage.

“You’re the one who called?” Stacey tried not to notice the critical glance the woman gave her over the steel-framed spectacles perched halfway down a patrician nose. It was an all-too-familiar expression to Stacey. Her slight, slim figure and fine features gave her a deceptively delicate appearance, not matching most of the small, southern California beach community’s citizens’ ideas of how a law enforcement officer should look.

Despite the glance and an almost imperceptible sniff, Mrs. Lindhall had the good manners to keep her opinion to herself. “Yes…ah…Officer, I am. You see, I’m most concerned about my neighbor, Darlene Brantley. She has two small children, you see. She’s usually off to work by now. I always see her pass when she takes the children down the street to the sitter. She might be ill, of course, but I tried to reach her by phone. I’ve knocked, but I can’t seem to raise anyone.”

Thank God for all the old people in the country who had nothing more demanding to do than keep track of the comings and goings of their neighbors. “Okay, Mrs. Lindhall, I’ll see what I can find out.”

With a surprisingly agile step, the woman led Stacey to the front door. A pale beige, it had been stained by numerous dirty handprints, big and little. First, Stacey rang the bell then, with her knuckles, rapped sharply against the peeling paint. A strange sound came from inside, a kind of mewing – a kitten perhaps, or a small child. “Good Lord, that’s a baby!”

Stacey grabbed the knob, preparing to use force, but it turned easily. Warily, she pushed the door open and squinted into the dim interior. No matter how often she came upon the scene of a murder, she knew she would never get used to it – not the sight of a corpse, nor the terrible smell of death and blood. This time was no different.

“What is that dreadful odor?” Mrs. Lindhall coughed, crowding through the door behind Stacey.

“Don’t come any further, Mrs. Lindhall,” Stacey ordered. But the woman didn’t listen. Before Stacey could prevent it, the elderly woman had switched on the light.

A ceramic table lamp came on and illuminated the morbid scene. An infant in a bassinet was responsible for the mewing. A boy of around three crouched on the floor, dark eyes big with fear as he stared at the intruders. Tears began when he recognized his neighbor. Scrambling to his feet, he hurled himself at the woman’s knees.

The body of a young woman, clothed only in a man’s tee shirt bunched around her chest, was on the floor, crowded into the space between the couch and coffee table. That she’d either slid or fallen from the couch was evidenced by the bloody slipcover pulled from the furniture and caught under her body.

“I was afraid of something like this. Is she dead?” Mrs. Lindhall asked.

“Yes.” There was no need for Stacey to feel for a pulse. The body had expelled its wastes and blood was clotted around the wounds on the chest, shoulders, and arms.

The baby’s crying grew louder, and Stacey stepped beside the bassinet. By rights, she shouldn’t touch anything, but she couldn’t leave the baby inside the house with its dead mother. She lifted the infant, along with its blanket, into her arms. “There, there little one,” she cooed, patting its back. The baby shivered and settled its head against Stacey’s neck. She could feel its downy hair against her cheek and smell its sweet breath.

Mrs. Lindhall, carrying the boy, scurried out of the house ahead of her. After settling the infant on the front seat of her police unit, Stacey radioed in her gruesome discovery. When the detectives arrived, they would ask her questions, perhaps even send her out to interview the neighbors, but after she wrote her report about the initial discovery of the body, the murder investigation would be out of her hands.

As Stacey had expected, when Detective Milligan arrived, he sent her to knock on doors and question the neighbors. The children had been put in the care of Mrs. Lindhall until the murder victim’s relatives could be notified. Stacey didn’t have much luck finding people home in most of the tiny frame-and-stucco houses that had been built in the mid- and late-twenties.

At one house, a wizened, ancient man in a walker had answered her knock and, when asked about Darlene Brantley, he snarled, “I don’t know or care to know any of my neighbors.” He slammed the door in her face.

The corner house at the end of the block, which was much larger than the others, had a chain link fence around the yard. Several laughing preschoolers crawled upon, slid down, or swung on play equipment, pausing to stare at Stacey as she entered through the gate.

A woman on the porch, with a fat toddler astraddle a denim-clad, plump hip, greeted her with a friendly, “Hi.”

Stacey climbed the steps. “Hello, I’m Officer Wilbur, and I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Sure, go ahead.” A crease appeared between the wide set eyes of the young woman as she absently pulled a strand of her long, dark hair out of the baby’s fist.

“Are you acquainted with Darlene Brantley?”

The frown deepened. “Something has happened to Darlene, right? I knew it. It isn’t like her not to let me know when she isn’t bringing the kids. So, what is it? Did she have a wreck in that old clunker of hers? The babies – they’re not hurt, I hope.”

Stacey held up a hand for silence. “The children are fine. I hate to be the one to tell you, but Mrs. Brantley has been murdered.”

The woman gasped. “Oh, no! Who did it? A burglar, or some sex maniac? One of her boyfriends, maybe?”

“I’m afraid we don’t know yet, Mrs.…ah?” Stacey poised her pen over her notebook.

“Schneider, Mrs. Donald. Just call me Anne. Is there anything I can do? Take care of the kids, maybe?” Anne backed into a canvas chair and plopped down, settling the toddler onto the porch. The tot dropped on her diapered bottom beside a pile of toys.

“We have to contact her relatives. Do you know any of them?”

“Sure, her mom, Myrtle Bender. Oh, boy, she’ll be positively devastated. And what about Darlene’s ex, Charles. Has he been told?”

“Someone is calling him. How well do you know Mr. Brantley?”

Shrugging, Anne pulled her sweater around her. Though it was April, the ocean fog hung close to shore, keeping the weather cool and damp in the small beach community. “Charles? I know him pretty well. He’s okay. Sometimes he picks up the kids for the weekend.”

“You mentioned boyfriends. Anyone special?”

“Well, not really. Darlene liked to party and she’d bring guys home. Bet it was one of them who killed her. I warned her it wasn’t just AIDS she needed to worry about if she slept with guys she didn’t know.”

“Did you ever meet any of her dates?”

“No, she just liked to tell me about them. There was a Lance, and Brick, and Skip. They all sort of sounded alike, self-centered, irresponsible, good-looking hunks. You know the type.”

One of the children in the yard fell off the steps to the slide and cried out in pain. Anne jumped to her feet and bolted down the stairs. She paused briefly. “Sorry. Got to see what’s happened. Don’t really know anything else anyway.” Running to the child, she scooped him into her arms and soothed him.

“Thank you, Mrs. Schneider, you’ve been most helpful.”

When Stacey returned to the murder victim’s home, the coroner’s wagon was parked in the driveway. A red Toyota truck careened around the corner and screeched to a halt the wrong way on the opposite side of the street. A slim man in his late twenties or early thirties leapt from the cab and dashed toward the house. By the stricken expression on his face, Stacey guessed he might be the victim’s ex-husband. They reached the open front door at the same time.

He grabbed Stacey’s arm. Behind tinted glasses, his dark eyes searched her face. “I’m Charles Brantley. Someone called my office and said something happened to my ex-wife. Where is she? Where are my kids?”

“Your children are fine, Mr. Brantley. They’re with the neighbor, Mrs. Lindhall. But your Mrs. Brantley…I’m sorry.”

Brantley scowled. “I…I…don’t understand. She wasn’t sick. Was there an accident?”

Curious bystanders had begun to gather on the sidewalk. Stacey kept her voice low as she said, “You’ll have to talk to the detective in charge.”

He swallowed a sob and his eyes filled with tears. “Oh, God, she’s dead, isn’t she? I warned her something terrible might happen if she continued hanging out in bars.”

“Please, step inside, Mr. Brantley. Detective Milligan will speak with you.” She motioned for him to go ahead of her. Brantley, obviously shaken, stumbled past.

“Detective Milligan,” Stacey announced, “this is the deceased’s husband, Charles Brantley.”

“Ex-husband,” he said quickly, “we’ve been divorced for over six months, and separated even longer.”

Photographs had been taken of the crime scene. Officers bustled in and out of rooms, while two men from the county coroner’s office from Ventura were bent over the body.

Detective Milligan faced the new arrivals. Though Stacey had a self-imposed rule to never date fellow police officers, she might make an exception for Doug Milligan if he ever asked her out. Tall, with broad shoulders, dark brown hair closely cropped, and sporting a mustache like almost all of his male co-workers, he had a sincerity and gentleness about him that appealed to her. He smiled often and easily and, when he did, deep dimples appeared in his tanned cheeks.

Milligan wasn’t smiling at the moment, though sympathy showed in his expression as he shook hands with Brantley. “It’s rough, I know. Would you mind identifying her for us?” Without waiting for an answer, the detective stepped aside so the man could see his former wife’s body.

Stacey took a long look, for the first time noticing the victim had been attractive with lots of curly blonde hair, probably no taller than she was, with far more bosom and wider hips. Charles Brantley stared at the corpse, moaned, sniffed, and smacked his fist against the palm of his hand. “Damn, I’d like to get my hands on the monster who did this to her.”

Milligan placed a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder. “You wouldn’t have any idea who might have been with her last night, would you?”

“No. I don’t think she had a steady boyfriend, only a series of one-night stands. I didn’t meet any of them.” Charles stared away from the body. “I told her it was no way to be bringing up our children.”

“What about them? Have you any plans for their immediate care, Mr. Brantley?” Milligan asked. “I’m sure Officer Wilbur could give you some leads if there is a…”

“No, no, that won’t be necessary. My mother will be happy to care for them. Would it be possible for me to pack some of their clothes?” Brantley took a tentative step toward the back of the house.

Before Milligan could answer, Stacey asked, “What about the victim’s mother?” She glanced inside her notebook to refresh her memory. “Myrtle Bender.”

“She needs to be told, of course, but my mother is far better suited to care for my children. I’m afraid Mrs. Bender is almost as wild as Darlene. She wouldn’t have time for them,” Brantley said.

The thought crossed Stacey’s mind that Mrs. Bender would be a strange sort of grandmother if she chose her social life over the needs of her grandchildren, though she realized not all women were as thrilled with being grandparents as her own mother. Caring for Stacey’s four-year-old son, Davey, seemed to be one of her greatest pleasures.

Detective Milligan broke into her thoughts. “That’s a good assignment for you, Wilbur. Locate the victim’s mother. Break the news about her daughter. Maybe she’ll have some thoughts about who did it.”

Terrific. What a ghastly chore. Stacey groaned inwardly. She obtained Mrs. Bender’s home and work address from Brantley. As she was about to leave, Detective Milligan called after her, “Bring me your report when you’re done, okay? And, by the way, Lieutenant Strickland mentioned he wanted to see you some time today.”

She nodded and headed toward her car. Lieutenant Strickland was in charge of community relations. He often called upon Stacey to make speeches to the less prestigious civic organizations and women’s groups, meet with the neighborhood watch programs, and do most of the school visits. If the event was scheduled during her regular shift, Stacey didn’t mind, but often she was required to speak on her day off or in the evening. Besides receiving no extra pay for the duty, it sometimes took her away from what little time she had with her son.

But it wouldn’t look good on her record if she turned the lieutenant down. Hoping the assignment wasn’t for later in the evening because she’d promised Davey she’d take him to the latest Disney movie, she drove off to seek the address given to her by Mr. Brantley for his ex-mother-in-law.

Thursday, 7:30 A.M.

Felix Zachary held his service revolver with both hands and aimed it between the eyes of the advancing mad man. There was no doubt that Felix’s target was a notorious cop killer. The suspect brandished a sawed-off shotgun, the same weapon He’d used to kill Felix’s buddies. There was no time for Felix to do anything but squeeze the trigger. But when he did, the gun didn’t fire. His opponent’s gun exploded in Felix’s face and he screamed in terror.

“Darling, wake up! You’re having that nightmare again.” Felix’s wife, Wendy, leaned over him, a shimmer of golden hair falling against his mahogany shoulder as she shook him awake.

“Damn!” Felix sat up. His heart hammered in his chest. He felt damp from sweating.

Wendy kissed him. He could smell her spicy perfume and peppermint toothpaste. “Are you going to be okay? I don’t like leaving you like this, but I can’t be late. I hate having so little time to spend together.” She was a second grade teacher at Pinion Street School. Felix had been recently assigned to the four-to-midnight shift, which left little time to be with his wife.

“Yeah, sure, I’m fine.” He reached over the side of the waterbed and rummaged in his pants’ pocket for a pack of cigarettes. Finding it, he stuck a filter tip into his mouth and lit it with the throwaway lighter from the same pocket.

“Felix, must you?” Wendy moaned, hurt in her pale blue eyes. “I was so proud when you quit smoking last year.”

“What the hell does it matter? The chances of me reaching old age are slim anyway.” He regretted his harshness immediately, though not quite enough to apologize.

“Goodness, what a terrible thing to say. That’s not true and you know it.” She didn’t continue her argument. Instead, she gave him one last pleading look intended to make him put out the cigarette, kissed him on the forehead, turned on her sensible two-inch heels, and disappeared down the hall of their new condominium.

Though the carpeting muffled her footsteps, Felix knew she was hurrying down the stairs, would retrieve her purse and briefcase from the dining room table where she always placed them the night before, and step through the kitchen to the door into the garage where her five-year-old Honda sat next to his much older but in nearly perfect condition Jaguar.

Felix plumped the pillow behind him and tried to relax against it as he blew out a thick stream of smoke. He wondered if any of his fellow officers ever had bad dreams. If they did, they’d never mentioned them. Hell, it wasn’t the kind of thing you discussed with your buddies. He thought about his friend, Abel Navarro, who’d gotten the promotion Felix had been in line for until the shooting.

Nothing seemed to bother Navarro, or Stacey Wilbur. Despite being the only female officer on the Rocky Bluff Police Department, Stacey always managed to keep her cool.

Damn it. Why the hell couldn’t he rid himself of the guilt? No one blamed him for killing that kid. After all, he thought the suspect was reaching for a weapon when Felix shot him. It had only taken Internal Affairs three days to clear him. Why did he keep feeling so bad about it? Worse still, it was affecting his sex life.

It was just as well he didn’t see much of Wendy. He didn’t have any urges at all. He’d get over it, like anything else. It couldn’t last forever. Felix took one last drag on the cigarette before mashing it out in the brass ashtray on the night stand.

He punched the pillow and flopped over on his belly, causing the water in the mattress to slosh. Closing his eyes, he prayed the gentle movement would put him back to sleep, and there would be no more dreams.


10:15 A.M.

Abel Navarro had no difficulty figuring out who the reporting party had been. As soon as he turned down the street, he saw a woman in her early fifties standing at the open gate leading to a modest frame house, peering anxiously up and down the street. A blue-and-white police unit was parked at the curb. Abel could see a uniformed officer farther down the street, peeking under a bush as he made his search of the neighborhood. Because of the man’s dark red hair, Abel knew it was Officer Gordon Butler.

Having heard the missing child call when it came in, Abel decided to check on the progress of the search for himself. He never could get used to a crime where a child was involved. He hoped this would turn out to be a simple “lost child quickly found” incident. After parking his car behind the other one, Abel climbed out. Perhaps because his was an ordinary sedan, and he wore a light tan sport jacket over a beige shirt and dark brown slacks, the woman frowned at his approach.

While displaying the badge and identification in his wallet, Abel quickly introduced himself. “I’m Sergeant Navarro, ma’am. Just stopped by to see how things are going here.”

“Oh, Sergeant, thank goodness you’re here. I’m Betty Earlimont. I’m so upset I just don’t know what to do.”

“Why don’t you tell me what happened?” Abel spoke in a soothing tone, and as he listened to her story, absently smoothed his neat black mustache with a forefinger.

“I only left her for a few minutes.” Mrs. Earlimont glanced back at the front porch of her house. “My little niece and I…she’s my grandniece really…were going shopping and the phone rang.”

“Your niece is how old?” Abel asked.

“Kelly is only two.”

One year younger than his own daughter, Lupita. “Tell me what happened.”

The woman stepped back inside the yard and headed for the steps. “I let go of her hand to go back inside, and Kelly ran right over to that mud.” She pointed to a rose bush growing alongside the three-foot tall, white picket fence with a small puddle beneath it.

“Of course I told her to stay away from the mud, and she nodded her head, but she squatted down beside it just as I went inside. The phone call was from Kelly’s mother, Rhonda. She just wanted to tell me she wasn’t feeling well and planned to come home early to pick up Kelly.” Mrs. Earlimont sighed, and turned toward Abel. He could see tears glistening in her eyes.

“When I came back outside, I couldn’t find Kelly anywhere. At first I thought she was just hiding. She loves to play hide ’n seek. But I looked everywhere. I even promised her a double decker ice cream cone if she’d come out.” Mrs. Earlimont’s voice cracked.

“Was the gate closed?” Abel asked, knowing his own daughter, given the opportunity, would certainly use any available opportunity to explore the neighborhood.

The woman hung her head. “No, but I don’t remember leaving it open. I’m very careful about keeping it fastened when I’m taking care of Kelly.”

“Perhaps she opened it herself.”

“No, my husband moved the latch up where she couldn’t reach it.” Mrs. Earlimont dug in the pocket of her sweater and pulled out a wrinkled tissue to wipe her nose.

Abel felt his first twinges of uneasiness. “Did you see any strangers around the neighborhood either before or after you realized Kelly was missing?”

“No, no one except the Carpenters’ gardener.” She pointed across the street where a tiny, Japanese man used wicked-looking shears to lop off unruly pieces of an evergreen bush. “I’ve already talked to him. He didn’t see her.”

“What about the neighbors?”

“Everyone is gone during the day except me. I used to work, had my own beauty shop, but my kids are all gone now, and we don’t really need the extra money. When my niece asked me if I’d take care of Kelly, I jumped at the chance. It was boring being home all day without much to do. I’ve been her babysitter since she was six weeks old.” She swallowed a sob. “Rhonda will probably find another babysitter now.”

“Oh, I doubt that. Have you told your niece what’s going on?” Abel asked. Since his mother babysat Lupita every day while he and his wife, Maria, worked, he knew he’d want to be informed immediately if something happened to his child.

Another guilty cast clouded Mrs. Earlimont’s eyes. “Not yet…I didn’t want to alarm her unnecessarily.”

“Maybe it would be a good idea if you called her now,” Abel suggested.

“Surely Kelly has just wandered into someone’s backyard.”

“Yes, ma’am, that’s likely what’s happened, but I think her parents need to know.” Unbidden, his mind began listing all the horrible crimes that are committed on children. He shook his head to rid himself of the dark thoughts.

Almost as though she’d read his mind, the woman’s eyes widened, tears threatening again. “Maybe someone…” She whirled around, hurrying up the stairs.

Abel followed her into the house. “When you’ve done that, perhaps you can give me a recent picture of Kelly.”

Mrs. Earlimont pointed to a framed 5 x 8 sitting in a place of honor on top of a large screen television. A plump and dimpled toddler with bright red curls smiled at Abel. As soon as Mrs. Earlimont got off the phone, Able planned to find out what the child had been wearing. He’d put in a call to the department for more help to search for her. He’d find Officer Butler and see if he’d found any clues as to the child’s whereabouts. Later he’d contact the media and have them display Kelly’s picture. It would be easy enough to cancel in the event the child was located soon. If Lupita was missing, Abel knew he’d want everything possible to be done to find her.