Emory
“A man is known by the company he keeps.”
—Aesop
THE STORE IS one of those hip retailers that feels more like a club than a clothing establishment.
I step through the door just behind Detective Helmer, noting several twenty-somethings assessing strategically hung blue jeans with enough rips in the legs to justify someone throwing them away instead of buying them. How many conversations have Mia and I had on the wisdom of paying ridiculous prices for clothing that has been deliberately destroyed?
“Emory, you’re such a square,” Mia had declared the last time I’d given in to buying her a pair.
A beautiful, young woman with straight, waist-length, blonde hair greets us from behind the register. The name tag on the left side of her blouse says Madison. “Is there something I can help you with?” she asks with a smile.
We walk to the register, and I notice the return smile Detective Helmer directs her way. And then I realize it’s deliberate because Madison is already melting before our eyes. By the time he pulls out his phone and shows her a close-up picture of the hat we’re looking to identify, she’s completely committed to answering his question.
“We do carry the brand,” she says, engaging in direct eye contact with him. “It’s very popular. We can barely keep it in stock.”
“Do you remember this exact hat?” he asks, leaning his right hip against the counter.
“Sure,” she says. “We’ve reordered it a few times because it sold out. Haven’t been able to get another shipment though.”
“Do you remember selling it to anyone?”
“Yeah,” Madison says. “A few guys.”
“Do you think you could describe them to me?”
She leans back a bit, lets her gaze drift to me and then back to him again. “What’s this about?” she asks, her eyes narrowing.
“We’re investigating a missing girl.”
“Are you a cop?”
“Not at the moment,” he says evenly.
“What then?”
He gives her a long look, as if weighing the necessity of being truthful with her. “I’m working for the family of the missing girl.”
“Is this your assistant?” Madison asks with a small, borderline flirtatious smile.
“The missing girl is my sister,” I say, taking a bit of satisfaction in watching her sarcasm collapse like a balloon denied helium.
“Oh. I’m sorry,” she says.
Detective Helmer taps the screen of his phone and hands it to the young woman. “The photo is blurred, but this is surveillance video of a guy following the two girls who are missing.”
“Two?”
“Yes,” he says, tipping his head toward me. “Emory’s sister and her best friend.”
“That’s awful,” she says, as if it’s just occurred to her that horrible things like this really do happen.
Madison looks at the phone screen, then touches it and presses both fingers outward to enlarge the picture. She doesn’t say anything for a good bit, looking at the photo with a fixed expression. “It’s hard to be sure,” she says finally, “but I don’t think I’ve seen him before.” Madison glances at the camera above the door we came in through. “And anyway, I’m fairly sure I’m not supposed to be talking about customers. Like that’s probably an invasion of privacy or something. I could get fired.”
My stomach drops at the letdown.
Helmer folds his arms across his chest, and I notice his jaw clench. I realize in that moment that he’s a man who’s used to getting what he wants, when he wants it. Madison must notice too because she says, “Well, because it involves a missing girl, maybe it’s okay. I think he’s been in here before.”
“Do you remember his name?” Helmer asks.
“No.”
“Can you get us a last name? Look him up by his credit card?”
“He paid cash.”
Helmer processes this, then says, “If you think of anything else about him, Madison, anything that might help us locate him, please call me.” He pulls a card from his pocket and hands it to her.
She reads it. “I thought you said you were a private guy. This says MPD.”
“I’m on hiatus,” he says. “You can reach me at that number though. Call me from your phone now so I’ll have yours.”
“Okay,” she says reluctantly, dialing the number on the card from her cell phone.
Helmer’s phone rings. He answers it, then clicks off and types her name in the contact.
“I really hope you find her,” Madison says.
“Thanks for your help,” he says.
I follow Helmer out of the store, waiting until we’re both in the Jeep before I say, “I don’t know whether to be hopeful or flattened.”
“It’s a start,” he says, one hand on the steering wheel, a set look on his face.
“What is it?” I ask, sensing he’s holding something back.
“Something tells me she wasn’t completely forthcoming.”
“Why? What makes you think that?”
He glances back at the storefront. “Sixth sense, I guess.”
“What would she be leaving out?”
“I don’t know.” He glances at his watch. “It’s eight-thirty. The store closes at nine. Let’s see what she does when she gets off work.”
“You mean follow her?”
“Probably a dead end. Let’s just make sure.”
~
WE SIT IN silence for the next thirty minutes. Helmer has moved the Jeep farther down the street. We’re hidden in the shadows, but we can see the storefront. At nine o’clock on the nose, the store lights shut down, and a last customer straggles out the door and walks down the street, bag in hand.
Just then, a Range Rover swings into a spot in front of the store. Madison walks out, looking right, then left, and quickly heads for the vehicle, climbing inside.
“Who do you think is picking her up?” I ask.
“I don’t know. It could be her boyfriend. But let’s follow anyway.”
I buckle my seat belt and sit back as he pulls the Jeep onto the street and follows the Range Rover a few car lengths behind. It stays at the speed limit, makes complete stops at intersections. “Whoever it is,” I say, “they seem law-abiding.”
“Maybe a little too much so,” Helmer agrees.
We drive a good ten minutes until we reach a neighborhood in Georgetown. The Range Rover pulls into an empty spot. We drive on by, and I resist the urge to look back and see if I can get a look at the driver. There aren’t any spaces available farther down the street, so we have to circle the block. By the time we get back around, the lights are off, and the vehicle is empty.
“Damn,” Helmer says.
“Now what?”
He aims his phone at the back of the Range Rover and takes several photos of the plate. “Let’s see how long her visitor stays and what he or she looks like when they come back out.”
“Or they could be planning to stay the night.”
“I don’t have anywhere else to be,” he says, looking directly at me.
Neither do I.
~
I’M SETTLED DOWN in the seat, expecting that we’ll be waiting a while, if the person even comes out at all. It’s a little shocking then, when a door to one of the buildings opens and a man walks out and heads straight for the Range Rover.
“He’s wearing the baseball cap,” I say. “It’s him.”
“Stay cool,” Helmer says, placing a hand on my arm. “We can’t draw attention to ourselves. We’ll follow him.”
The vehicle starts and begins pulling out of the parking spot, just as Helmer’s phone rings. He glances at the screen. From my seat, I can see it’s Madison’s number.
“Why would she be calling you?” I ask.
“I don’t know, but here, answer it,” he says, handing me the phone and pulling onto the street. “I’ll follow this guy.”
I slide the answer button on his screen. “Hello.” There’s no reply. I press the phone to my ear. “Hello.”
“Help.”
The word is so low I think I might have imagined it. “Madison?”
“Please. Help me.”
“What is it?” Helmer asks, looking at me with a frown.
“She’s asking for help,” I say. “I think she’s hurt. We have to go back.”
“If we let him get away, we might not find him again,” Helmer says.
From the other end of the phone, I hear Madison say, “I’m . . . dying. Please.”
“We have to go back!”
Helmer hits the brakes and swings a U in the street. He guns it back to the apartment, pulling off the street without bothering to properly park. We both run for the building. I glance at the mailboxes just inside the front door, spot her last name and the number 208. We take the stairs two at a time.
“I’m calling 911,” Helmer says. I hear him asking for an ambulance at this address just as we reach Madison’s door. Helmer bangs hard on the knocker, but there’s no answer. He turns the knob. It’s locked. “Stand back,” he says, and then rams the door with his left shoulder. It doesn’t give the first time, so he moves farther back and then rushes the door again. This time, part of the frame breaks, and he reaches inside to turn the lock so that it swings open.
“Madison!” Helmer charges in, glancing left and right as he heads for the kitchen, calling her name again. I’m right behind him so that when he comes to a complete stop just short of the doorway, I barrel into him. He reaches back to steady me, and I step to the side, gasping at the sight before us.
Madison is lying on the floor in front of the stove, a gaping wound in her chest, blood staining her white blouse red. Helmer drops to his knees beside her, feeling for a pulse in her neck. Her lids flutter open, and she stares up at us both, her blue eyes welling with tears. “I . . . I should have told you I knew him.”
“An ambulance is on the way, Madison. Hold on, okay? Who did this to you?”
“Ser-Sergio.”
“Why?” Helmer asks, not hiding his shock.
“I . . . told him you were asking . . .”
“Shh,” I say, dropping down beside her and taking her hand between mine. “Save your strength. They’ll be here in a minute, and you’re going to be fine.”
Madison’s gaze drops to the blood on her blouse, the blood pooled on the floor around us. I glance down to see that my jean-covered knees are now also red. When she looks up at me, her voice is barely audible when she says, “I didn’t think he would do what you said. About your sister. He was good to me . . . gave me stuff.” She stops there, her lungs audibly gasping for air.
“Don’t,” I say. “You can talk later.”
“Madison,” Helmer says, tipping her chin toward him. “I’ll find him. He won’t get away with this, but I need you to tell me everything you know. His last name? Where he lives?”
She stares up at him, and I cringe at the sound of her struggling to breathe.
“Detective,” I say, “please . . .”
But he ignores me, imploring Madison to answer. “His last name, Madison.”
“Sokolov,” she manages to get out.
“Where does he live?” Helmer pushes.
“I don’t know,” she says on a whisper. “We always came here.”
A siren wails in the distance and then the sound grows closer outside the building. “They’re here, Madison,” I say, squeezing her hand again, as if I can infuse my own life force into her. Her face blurs before mine, and I’m seeing Mia, watching the life fade from her. Is there someone there for her? Panic rises inside me, and I’m leaning over Madison, pleading with her to hold on. The girl’s eyes flutter, and a gurgling noise sounds in her throat. Blood oozes from the left corner of her mouth.
I start to cry.
Helmer puts a hand on my shoulder, squeezes hard. “Emory,” he says, and I latch onto the crazy question of whether this is the first time he’s said my name.
Footsteps pound on the stairs outside Madison’s broken door. Two paramedics rush through, calling out that they’re here. But I look down at Madison’s still body, her open blue eyes, and I can see that they are too late.