The Second Girl

Most of the leaves have fallen from the few trees that hang tough on this block. The largest one, an old oak, with roots like fat, arthritic fingers reaching over the median, stands tall, anchored defiantly in front of their house.

The sidewalk and the walkway leading to the front porch are littered with dead leaves, crunching under my feet.

If I’m walking like I belong, why try to walk quietly? That wouldn’t be natural. It’s the way I look and dress, the way I carry myself, that means the most. Those years on the job stay with you, and I learned well. A commanding exterior presence. The inside, well, maybe not so much.

An empty bottle of Cuervo 1800, spent containers of sports drinks, cigarette butts, and scrunched-up red plastic cups are piled in a corner of the patio, in front of a couple of fold-up chairs. The black security gate is aluminum; the front door’s wooden, and there’s one dead bolt above the doorknob. Old, just like the house. You’d think based on what they do for a living they’d have more sense and give the front door an upgrade, invest in a steel door with a stronger frame. Maybe they’re just too fucking confident. They’ll know better soon.

I pull a pair of latex gloves out of the front pocket of my pants, put them on. I ring the doorbell a couple of times. I hear it chime, muffled through the wooden door, wait a few seconds and ring again. No answer. No barking dog, but I never saw them with a dog, so I don’t expect one.

I look behind me, scan the block, unshoulder the backpack, unzip one of the pockets, and grab a large screwdriver.

I wedge the tip between the door and the frame to the right of the dead bolt, find the spot where the bolt meets the metal, then slam the screwdriver with the heel of my palm. It doesn’t take more than a couple of hits.

Another quick glance behind me, and I pry the door open and enter, closing it behind me. It swings open a bit ’cause it won’t latch. I notice a single tennis shoe on the floor, grab it, and push it against the door so it stays partly open. Push back my suit jacket and remove my Glock from its holster. I tuck it to my side.

The smell inside the house is like ripe armpit mixed with cheap old liquor. I’ve been in worse places, though. More shoes on the floor, discarded shirts on two stained sofas, empty bottles of liquor, beer, cigarette butts falling out of ashtrays, beer cans replacing ashtrays, brand-new flat screen on an old coffee table against a wall.

It doesn’t matter how much preparation you put into a spot before you go in. Unless you can see through walls, you never know what you’re going to find. Fortunately, this is a small house, so there are not a lot of rooms to clear. No basement either, so one of the upstairs bedrooms is more than likely the spot I’m looking for. I’ve got a feeling Shiny likes to keep the stash close, so after I clear the house, the room I believe he beds down in is the one I’ll tear up.

The kitchen is littered with pizza boxes, more empty beer and liquor bottles. There are a few power tools—circular saw, drills, tile cutter, and so on—lined up against a wall near the rear door. Doesn’t look like they do much cooking. There are a couple of nearly full bottles of Cuervo on the counter. I’ll give it a more thorough search after I check the rooms on the second floor.

The wooden staircase leading to the second floor is narrow and creaky, the railing flimsy. I grip my gun with two hands and keep it at the ready.

Move up the steps.

An equally narrow hallway with wood floors, an open door to a bedroom straight ahead. Two other rooms, one of the doors open, separated by a bathroom. A linen closet with a slightly open door is across from the bathroom, past the flimsy metal banister rails.

I clear the room ahead of me first and then the next one. I’ll make my way back to search both rooms after I clear and search the master bedroom.

The closed door should be the main bedroom. Probably Shiny’s. I swing it open.

It’s the master bedroom. One window with drawn blackout curtains and a large king-size bed against a wall. A soccer ball’s in the middle of the floor, surrounded by dirty laundry and a black garbage bag stuffed with more dirty laundry. A portrait representing Christ, eyes toward heaven, hangs on the wall over the bed. Graffiti, as if they’ve been practicing their craft, on the other walls. There’s a small walk-in closet and another closed door with a latch and a padlock on the outside. I like padlocked doors.

I pull the curtain open enough to peek out. The old oak directly ahead. My Volvo across the street half a block down. Same cars that were parked there earlier. An old black man walking along the sidewalk on the other side of the street.

The padlocked door has to be a bathroom. It’s an obvious first choice to search.

I position myself to the side of the door and put my ear against it, give it a bit of a push, then turn the knob. I hear what sounds like a chain or a leash scooting on the floor. Sounds like I might have gotten the dog ownership thing all wrong. The last thing I want is an underfed pit bull jumping out at me after I open the door. All the time I’ve been sitting on this place I’ve never seen them with one. Sometimes they’ll keep them locked up and secured inside where they keep the stash. The dogs get meaner being confined like that. If it is a dog, it might think I’m its master and won’t attack until after I break off the latch and it suddenly realizes I’m not. Dogs don’t scare me, but that doesn’t mean I want to deal with one right now. I put my ear against the door again, push at it. Nothing this time, not even a low growl. But there’s definitely something in there. If it’s a dog, I’m hoping it’ll be crated.

I set my backpack on the floor, grip my weapon with my right hand, and pull out the crowbar from the backpack. It’s a tool that’s not only good for busting out a padlock on a latched door, but for teaching a bad dog a valuable lesson. Last thing I want to do is shoot the damn thing. Putting one through the head’s not only messy, but will attract attention. I holster my weapon, then wedge the crowbar in the latch where it meets the screws, and give it a yank. The screws tear out, splintering the wood. The latch and locked padlock fall to the floor.

I grip the crowbar tight like I mean business, then stand quiet and listen. Nothing. A dog would have reacted. Maybe. You never know with some of those gunpowder-fed psycho breeds, so I open the bathroom door slowly, while stepping back to a more defensive position.

“Damn,” I say, but it sounds more like a sudden release of breath.

A young girl, mouth duct-taped, in nothing but her underwear, sits cowering on the tile floor, snug against the wall below the sink and next to the corner of the bathtub. Her hands handcuffed in front, secured to a chain that’s fastened to a large eyebolt, which is screwed into the floor. Her shoulder-length blond hair in a ponytail. Bruises on her legs. Her face mostly hidden, tucked down to cradle herself, as if she’s afraid of what I might do to her.

For an instant I want to turn around and hightail it the hell outta here. I want to pretend like I never saw this shit. I’ll just find a new spot to hit—quickly. This nature of mine is all about fight or flight, and right now it’s all flight. What the hell am I supposed to do with this? Fuck. Despite the desperation and need that overwhelms me after I’m coming down from a long binge, I have a stronger old self that knows better.

I can’t run.

She’s still huddled there, whimpering, ninety pounds of serious living shit.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, girl,” I try, in my most comforting tone.

I grab my key ring out of my pants pocket.

“I’m gonna take those off you, okay?”

I lean down on one knee, reach for her hands. She resists at first, still unsure. The handcuff key I carry on my key ring works for the ones that bind her. She tries to scoot away, like a feral child in chains, but the wall stops her.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” I say again. “See, look.”

I slowly pull my wallet out of my back pants pocket and unfold it to show her the police badge. My thumb hides the portion of the badge that reads “Retired.” “See, it says ‘Detective.’”

I reach for her cuffed hands again, and this time she doesn’t resist. They’re sturdy handcuffs, like the ones I have, not something you can buy just anywhere. Cops, or maybe security guards, carry cuffs like this. I slip them in my left front pants pocket.

After I release her, I realize I should’ve peeled the duct tape off first. I notice a few track marks on her right inner arm, but not like someone who’s been using for a long time—just a few new bruises. Her small breasts are also bruised. She can’t be more than fifteen. She covers her breasts with her arms. I almost want to say I’m not looking at her like that, but I take off my jacket instead to offer to her. I can see she notices the holstered gun I carry on the right side of my waist.

She grabs the jacket, drapes it around her shoulders, and grips it tight to cover her body. It’s large enough to cover her down to her knees. I slide the wallet back into my pants pocket. “Let me take that off your face.”

She shakes her head no and starts to pull off the duct tape on her own. She whimpers as it tugs and pulls at the corner of her thin lip, but she manages to get it off. The area around her mouth is blotchy, scaly. It’s been pulled from her mouth more than once.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

It takes her a moment to say, “Amanda.”

“Amanda, I’m Frank, but my friends call me Frankie or just Marr. Where do you live, Amanda?”

“Burke, Virginia.”

“That’s in Fairfax County, right?”

“Yes. My family, are they okay?” She begins to weep.

“Your family?” I ask, wondering if I somehow missed finding them when I cleared the house. “Are they here?”

She looks at me, confused now.

“No, they’re home. They’re home, aren’t they?”

“I’m sure they’re home. I need to get you out of here now. You’ll be with them soon enough.”

“No. No. I thought you were here because they’re safe. I thought you came here to get me. No, I can’t go home,” she says, tears now streaming.

“Why can’t you go home?”

“Because he said they’d kill my family if I ever went home,” she cries. “You said you are a policeman. Have you seen them, my mom…my dad?”

“I came here because of something else and found you.”

“I can’t go, then. They’ll kill them! They know where I live. They’ll kill my mom and my dad.”

“No they won’t. I’ll make sure of that. I gotta take you outta here now, all right? Trust me when I say they’re not gonna touch your family, or you. Okay?”

I can tell she’s afraid to leave and why she was cuffed in front instead of in the back. She wasn’t about to escape. Those boys knew that. They’ve had enough time to brainwash the shit out of this kid. Judging by the tracks and the bruises, I’d say a few days. That’s more than enough time for a child like this.

“They been putting that shit in your arm, or have you?” I ask, and realize afterward that I’m talking to a little girl, not the junkies or crackheads I’m used to talking to.

“He has,” she says, with a firmness that suggests anger. Her lip quivers.

And I wonder if “he” is Shiny.

“Heroin?”

“Yes, and something else once, but it kept me up for almost two days so they didn’t anymore.”

“What else they got you using?” I ask, realizing how my mind is working now.

“Just weed. I want to go now.”

“I need to know first. The stuff they shot you up with, which made you stay up for two days, do you know where they keep that?”

“I don’t know. Why are you asking me this? Please, I want my mom now.”

I’m such an asshole. Who thinks like this?

“Where do they keep their stash?”

She looks at me, eyes wide, like she remembers when I said I didn’t come here for her.

“Is it someplace in the room there?”

“I don’t know,” she says, fear in her voice now. “Please take me home.” She breaks down and sobs.

I’m kicked back to reality. Her fucking reality.

“Are you hurt anywhere? I mean, can you move?”

“I can move.”

I maneuver myself calmly toward her and offer my hand.

She accepts.

“Let’s get outta here,” I say.

I help her up, but her knees buckle after she stands.

“Button up the jacket. I’ll have to carry you.”

She does.

I grab around her with my left arm, over my jacket where it falls below her rear. I lift her, and it’s like lifting nothing at all. She wraps her frail arms around my neck. I slip the crowbar into my backpack with my free hand on the way out and shoulder the backpack. She doesn’t say a word.

I pull the living room curtain and peek out before I exit. It looks clear, so I kick away the shoe that props the door. Once outside, I try to pull it shut the best I can. With my luck, some crackhead burglar’s going to roll up on the spot and find the stash, along with who knows what else. Damn, I can’t even think about it. Here I am, cradling this little girl, who’s been through hell, and this is what I think about.

I got just enough of my own to get me through tonight at least, but I don’t like the prospect of what tomorrow might bring if I don’t get the job finished today. I got a few necessities to help me through in the event of a total crash—Valium, Klonopin, Oxy, a good amount of weed, and a lot of liquor. But I like my life on the ups, not the downs.

I walk quickly to my car and around to the rear passenger’s side. I set my backpack on the sidewalk and push the button on the key fob, unlocking the door. I gently put her in, sit her on the seat. I buckle the seat belt for her.

“This is a funny-looking car for a policeman,” she says.

“It’s a specialized car, for cops who don’t want to be made as cops,” I return with a smile.

I close the door and walk around to the driver’s side, open the door and set the backpack on the front seat, peel off my latex gloves, and shove them in my pants pocket. I start the car.

Before I pull out I look at her through the rearview mirror and I realize I can’t go to the cops. It doesn’t matter that I’m a former cop turned PI and still have a couple of friends I can trust. And seriously, there’s only two.

Yeah, I can make up a good story. I’m not worried about that. Hell, I rescued a little girl. Exigent circumstances. Those words alone allowed me to kick in plenty of doors back in the day. But the fact is, if I take her somewhere like the Third District, which is the closest station, I’ll be there most of the day answering questions and making up stories. I don’t have the time for that shit.

And I can’t just take her home. Cops would still get involved, and Fairfax County PD would be slow-cooking my ass for even more hours than DC. Whatever choice I make, cops are going to get involved. I just have to do it in a way that minimizes my exposure and allows me to get back out here and do what I gotta do before they move on it first.

Then it comes to me.

Costello.

I’ll take her to Costello’s office downtown. She’ll know how to handle it. She retains me as an investigator for some of her bigger defense cases. All this other shit I do, well, that’s just sustaining a lifestyle I couldn’t afford otherwise.

I look at my wristwatch. If I hurry, I might have enough time after I drop off the kid to come back and make a quick run through before those Salvadoran mopes return. I’ll just have to give Costello the condensed version of a story I haven’t thought of yet.

I take Georgia Avenue south until it turns into 7th. Howard Hospital is behind me. I think about turning around to take her there. I look at the rearview again, notice her wrapped in my suit jacket, unexpressive and gazing out the window.

My mind’s been racing, but like I said, taking her to Costello’s might buy me the time I need to finish up what I spent days planning so I stay the course.

“How old are you, Amanda?”

I see her break away from the window as if something jarred her.

“Sixteen.”

“You look a little young for sixteen. When’s your birthday?”

She doesn’t answer. It’s like she forgot.

“Amanda, can you tell me your birthday?”

“October eleventh.”

“That was like a couple days ago, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Damn, what a way to spend your birthday.

“Did they kidnap you, Amanda?” I ask directly.

She disappears again, somewhere in her head or out the window.

“Did they kidnap you?”

“No,” she says, just as directly.

“Tell me what happened. I need you to focus now because I’ll need to explain it later.”

She is looking at me watching her through the rearview mirror.

It takes a moment, but she says, “There’s a boy,” then pauses, thinks. “He goes to my school, Edgar. He took me there once. He said they were his brothers and I should meet them because he wanted me to be his girl.”

“So you dated Edgar before that?”

“Yeah, I guess. He has a car, and we’d drive around sometimes, maybe go to the mall.”

“The first time you were there, is that when they kidnapped you?”

“No. They took me to a mall and bought me stuff.”

“Your parents ever say anything about that?”

“They never knew. Don’t tell my parents,” she adds desperately.

“I won’t tell them.”