Nikolai

 

The red truck was helpful only because I had connections to the Department of Motor Vehicles. They were very helpful, as well as discreet as far as looking up certain vehicle information for me whenever I needed it. The red truck itself didn’t help a lot. Sure, we were in the city, but there were still plenty of people who liked to have trucks of varying sizes and colors. So, it narrowed it down, but not enough. The fact that it was dented in the hood, however, was helpful. The woman had mentioned that Logan had been complaining about it being new, too, and he couldn’t believe he’d already dented it. Which meant the truck was a recent purchase, but that the accident was recent, too. Which meant he could have called in a claim and possibly exchanged insurance with someone. Since I had his name already, it went a long way towards filtering out all the useless information, but I needed more to go on and was hoping the car might be helpful, since the only working address I had for him thus far was some farm out of the city.

 

Clearly, he wasn’t staying there.

 

“Do you have any address listed for the truck?” I asked Cory, my contact at the DMV. He was looking up the truck along with the information connected to Logan’s name.

 

“Uh, yeah, hang on. Let me bring it up.” He paused a second and all I could hear was the sound of clicking. “Ah, here it is.”

 

Eagerness bubbled up within me. This could be it, but I tried not to get my hopes up, lest I become disappointed. “Is it here in the city?”

 

“Yeah. Some art district downtown. I don’t know the area myself, but it’s near the art school, the one off Main? Anyway, do you want the address?”

 

“Yes. Go ahead and list it off for me. Is there a number attached to it?”

 

There was a pause and some more typing. A second later, “Yeah. Looks like he’s got a bunch of them, do you want them all or just the most recent?”

 

“All.”

 

By the time I hung up with Cory, I had a half a dozen phone numbers and just one address written down on a scrap of paper. I began trying the numbers as I got into my car. I needed to check out the address in the hopes of finding him. If he was staying at a hotel, there was a good chance he wouldn’t go home, if he had one here in the city, but if this address belonged to him, maybe I could find a clue in his home. I’d break in, take a look around, check to make sure he wasn’t there, then see if he left anything that might tell me where he was going. People did stupid things when they were on the run, like leave receipts and ticket stubs and check receipts behind, indicating where they were going, what they were doing, and when they were leaving or coming back.

 

I had the distinct feeling Logan would be no different.

 

The first number was a bust, disconnected or something, so I tried the next as I started the car and plugged the address into my GPS. I knew where the art school was, but didn’t know the area well enough to be sure where this address was located. It was some apartment building, I knew that much, but I didn’t think I’d ever been there before.

 

I tried the second number and got an angry woman who only spoke Spanish—until I told her I was the police, then she informed me in perfect English that she didn’t know any Logan and her son’s name was Jordan. I decided she wasn’t covering for Logan, since she sounded like an older woman and was a mother. My target’s mother was dead, that much I was sure of.

 

The next number went to a voicemail that belonged to some sort of pop up business that sold strange potato sculptures. I made it through all of the phone numbers and only the last one told me he’d just gotten the number, indicating it might have been Logan, but I doubted it. He seemed calm, collected, and honestly thought I was just some friend searching numbers in his contacts list.

 

Whatever number he’d given the DMV; it definitely wasn’t his most recent.

 

I gave up on the numbers and followed the GPS downtown to the art district. I drove through a rundown area that was made semi-beautiful by spray painted murals, strange little New Age shops, and cafés that all served foreign coffees and strange Danishes that could have just as easily come out of a plastic wrapper as from their ovens. This was the land of hippies and activists and starving artists—which was why the apartment I finally arrived at was a wreck. It was just barely above falling apart, the outside half painted with a color that might have supposed to have been white, but was closer to puke green and humidity gray. It wasn’t a good color.

 

Heading up the steps, which were covered in marker, chalk, and paint, drawings of anything and everything covering the concrete, I worried briefly that I might have trouble getting in. Most apartment complexes had security gates or at least a card reader to make sure only residents could get in.

 

My worries were unfounded, however, as apparently, this apartment complex was cheap enough that the door was simply open, allowing anyone who chose to enter at will.

 

Nice place, I thought as I headed inside.

 

There was someone in the lobby sitting at a desk, but they were reading a paper—or sleeping—and didn’t even notice as I casually headed to the stairs that would lead me to the fourth floor of the building.

 

The place was as grimy and uninviting on the inside as it was on the outside. The walls were painted white, but had smudges and fingerprints and even a hole through part of it. It looked like no one had been through to clean in a very long time, and the lights flickered. It certainly looked like the kind of place where a low-life like Logan might live. As I reached the fourth floor, I started searching for the number I was looking for. As I did so, I noticed a young woman and a man of similar age came out of one of the doors. Instantly, I recognized the woman.

 

Madeline.

 

What was she doing here?

 

The coincidence seemed tremendous that she would be here of all places. A quick desire ran through me, not just for her body, but an urge to have her see me, recognize me. I wanted her to know I was there, fate having brought us together once again. But she wasn’t alone, and things had been left…badly before. It was a bad idea, and more to the point, I wasn’t the type interested in any sort of long-term relationship, which seemed exactly the thing this young girl did want.

 

Keeping out of sight, I waited at the opposite end of the hall for the pair to exit the apartment before I began to search for mine. I watched as they disappeared, ignoring the surge to go to her and take her with me, then I began to check the numbers. With each step I took, I got closer to her apartment. Then, finally, I was standing right in front of it—which just happened to be the number listed for the address of Logan King.

 

“Something isn’t right. This must be an old address,” I said to no one at all.

 

But I was wondering if I was right. Was this yet another dead end?

 

I thought it must be, but my gut was telling me otherwise. Searching for answers, I raced downstairs to check the line of mailboxes that I’d passed in the lobby of the place. When I reached them, I searched the numbers and names until I found what I was looking for. Madeline.

 

But more specifically, Madeline King.

 

That was when I remembered he had a sister, though I’d never found a good recent picture of her. I hadn’t wanted to involve an innocent in this, so I’d never pursued whether or not she could be involved in all of this, or know where he was. But I should have. I thought of her long blonde hair, like warm honey or wheat. Her bright blue eyes, her freckles. Features that transferred over perfectly to the pictures I had of Logan.

 

“Damnit!”

 

How had I made this complicated?