“My name is Arthur Tracy, but around the cop house, everyone gets tagged with a moniker. So, when I made detective, I got christened “Dick.” I’m not on the force anymore, but I am a P.I.
Sometimes when I’m on the job and waiting to get a long-range shot of someone screwing around another guy’s wife in an out-of-the-way motel. where no one expects to find them, my mind wanders. So, I amuse myself by imagining the exploits of Chester Gould’s famous character.
Tonight, it’s more serious. I’m trying to find a missing 14-year-old girl. Her father called me yesterday. When I met at their home last night, he introduced me as Richard Tracy to his wife, Anna. I corrected him, “It’s Arthur Tracy, Mrs. Silvio; I’m pleased to meet you.” I shook her limp, nicotine-stained hand and looked into her shifting, vacant eyes, sure that she was medicated. I didn’t blame her; it’s been six days since they last got a call or text from their daughter. I asked about the police. They told me they were unsatisfied with the police response, and that’s why they called me. I can understand that. I was a cop for 13 years. I told them my retainer and day rate, plus expenses. He said, “No problem.”
We sat at the dining room table. I opened my tablet and addressed the father, “Mr. Silvio….”
“Jack, please.” He was a strong-looking guy with an outdoorsy tan and a big-ass Rolex on his right hand. When I saw that, I thought of an old Dick Tracy crime-stoppers card that I saved as a kid indicating it probably means he’s left-handed. Anna was less impressive, thinner than I like, and fidgety.
“Okay, Jack, you’ve had no calls from….”
“Doreen.”
“Yes, Doreen. Any texts or social media posts?”
“None.”
“Have any of her close friends called or texted you asking about her?”
He shook his head, “No, nothing we’ve heard or seen.”
“Is her computer in her room.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know her password?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Do you mind if I look? I’d like to take that computer with me. If I may?” A fleeting glance between Jack and Anna caught my attention. Anna lit a cigarette.
“Well, I don’t know if Doreen would allow that.” He stiffened up.
“Doreen’s not here, Jack. Time is short, and she may be running out of it.” I said that while giving him my number two stare, which can be frightening. I got my way.
I typed a few notes into my tablet, then we went up a curved staircase with an elaborate railing past some impressive artwork hanging on the curved wall. This family had some bucks.
Doreen’s room was as expected, complete with stuffed animals, posters, and memorabilia of pleasant teen memories. Her laptop was placed on a desk calendar covered with notes, numbers, squiggles, and small graphic pictures drawn with a fine ballpoint and a skilled hand. “Your daughter is quite an artist.”
For the first time, Mrs. Silvio spoke, “Art was her favorite subject. She excelled in that.” I filed that information in my brain for reference because several of the pictures were erotic representations of male genitalia. I found her passcode taped on the bottom of a Snoopy mug filled with pens. I typed it into my tablet and took a picture of Jack, Anna, and Doreen, which was hanging beside the desk. “Mind if I take this?” They both nodded, and I slipped the small frame into my jacket pocket.
“I’ll take her laptop back to my office for examination. My secretary is a whizz at social media, and she can save me a lot of time searching?” This was my first lie, but it was a big one. I don’t have an office or a secretary. All I have is a fancy business card, a cell phone, and a recently reinstated license. But that’s another story.
Jack agreed reluctantly, followed by another quick glance with Anna. What’s going on with these people? I don’t have an answer now, but I will. Jack picked up an envelope from his desk and handed it to me as we passed the library. “Your retainer.”
“Thanks. I assure you I will earn it.”
When we parted at the door, I told them the truth. “I will find your daughter.” I meant it. I just hope when I do, she’s still alive.
Most of the retainer I got will go to my ex, Marilyn, leaving me just enough to survive until my next billing.
***
I picked up take-out Chinese on the way home and picked at that while I picked at Doreen’s laptop on my tiny kitchen table. I constantly searched local and national law enforcement databases when I was employed. I knew my way around a computer, although not as familiar with all the social media outlets as I presume my imaginary secretary would have been. Four hours and four Rolling Rocks later, I found a recurring thread. Why was Doreen searching a dark stream of member-only swinger sites?
These groups weren’t cheap. At least at the level, she was searching. And why would a fourteen-year-old girl be searching these sites, all of which required proof of maturity to join? When I was on the force, our focus in Vice was on street crime, the pimps and walkers, the traffickers, and the lower rungs of sexual crimes that often turned deadly. These adult clubs skirted the law with language that suggested they were simply coordinating a meet and greet at some pleasant location. They didn’t stick their nose into private business between consenting adults—read that as a group activity.
So much has changed in recent years, with swanky and exotic Airbnbs providing the perfect venues. I’ll call Mutt in the morning; he’ll know more about this. I kissed the bedside framed picture of my fifteen-year-old daughter, soon to be sixteen, and told her briefly what I was doing, turned out the light, and had a restless night’s sleep.
***
After a caffeine wind-up, I called the station, “Detective Garcia, please.”
“He’s on a call, sir. Would you care to leave a message?”
“Ask him to call Jeff, please. He has the number.” I didn’t say, “Tell him,” because our relationship has broken down since I was fired. Mutt was careful, by the book, everything above board, kind of cop. I was the cowboy, too quick to pull a gun or throw a punch. We were a helluva team until I went too far, I drowned a punk trying to get information, and Mutt did me a solid that he can’t forgive. But my aggressive action did save twin fifteen-year-old girls, who might have ended up servicing some asshole in a foreign country. That gave me enough points to keep a tenuous relationship with Mutt and keep me out of prison, but not enough to save my job.
Two hours later, he called, “What?”
“I’m looking for a missing fourteen-year-old, Doreen Silvio. Her dad said the cops aren’t doing shit.”
“Hold on.” I heard pecking sounds and knew he was searching. “Doreen with two e’s?”
“Yeah.”
A minute later, “Nothing recent, but this kid has flown away in the past, two…no, three times last year. The longest was three days. She returned home on her own. No information about where she went. The parents were interviewed and didn’t want to go any further. We’ve had no recent call from the parents about a missing kid. So, why should I care, Jeff? I’m a busy guy.”
“Got it. So, I’m on my own. What do you know about these swinger clubs around the area?”
“I’m old, and I’m married, you know that.”
“Besides that, any complaints, problems, criminality. So, what’s the skinny?”
“All of the above, mostly from an unsatisfied partner maybe making accusations of abuse, but after they cool down, they don’t want to talk about it and usually end up in divorce court.”
“What about kids?”
“Not these groups. They are very tight about that because they know that’s a trip they don’t need or want. We constantly watch for that kind of shit.”
“I mean, have any kids dropped a dime on their parents?”
“Is this what you’re thinking?”
“Just another angle, that’s all.”
“That it?”
“For now, Mutt, ‘preciate anything that might come up. I’ll find this kid.”
“Do it legally. No more cowboy shit or I’ll be arresting you. Or, maybe just shoot your sorry ass and be done with you.”
“Got it, take care.”
“I’m not blowing smoke, Jeff. I mean it. Don’t do another Jekyll and Hyde thing. I can’t save you now.”
When Mutt says something, I know he means it. But I have my own way of doing things, and I’m all in with what I do.
I took the last longneck from the fridge and sat in the recliner with closed eyes replaying everything I had just heard. Most of it was predictable, but when Mutt told me about the kid angle, which rang a bell as I thought about the suspicious looks between husband and wife, an angle that I will pursue as I work this case to the bone. I’ll find out. I’m good at that. Also, I asked myself, “Why did these parents lie to me?”
After five beers, I should have stayed home. But the guy I wanted to see didn’t come out in the daylight. And he wouldn’t answer his phone. So, I went downtown. After three stops turned up bupkis, I got my first lead. I found Kodak at a titty bar on Lexington. Years ago, we relied on his advice about photo equipment and techniques to aid our tech team. The guy was a genius, but then he went off the deep end when his wife dumped him. Tonight, he was holding a rolled-up dollar bill so the girl on the stage could squat and grip it with her well-trained lips.
I sat next to him and said, “Save your money, Kodak. I’ve got a better deal for you.”
He turned, “Humph, Dick the dick. I bet you haven’t had any since Marilyn walked.”
“Don’t go there.”
“Sorry, Tracy. What do you want?”
“Did you ever film any of these swinger parties, the kind that like rent Airbnb’s, maybe in the islands?”
“A few.”
“What can you tell me?”
“They’re legal. They’re all consenting adults. At least the ones I’ve done. I don’t do kids.”
“So, you’re telling me there are others that do, kids.”
“Shit, yeah.”
“Around here?”
“Maybe.”
“What the hell? A group of oversexed adults, possibly married, agree to meet and swap, including kids. Are you shittin’ me?”
“What the fuck century have you been living in, Tracy? Kids are a hot commodity.”
“Their own kids?” I was stunned.
“Why go outside the family. The family that swings together do all kinds of things together. They probably go to Disneyworld.”
“So, we’re looking at a class above middle-class?”
“Yeah, these clubs aren’t cheap. They’ll rent exotic venues, maybe go to the islands. Stuff like that during school vacations with the kids and do their thing.”
“What the fuck.” I thought of my daughter and cringed. If I’d ever sunk that low, I’d shoot myself.”
“Can you give me any other names I can ask?”
“Try Gary Truist. He’s a travel agent with Wentworth Sun Tours. He’s always willing to talk for a few bucks. You don’t have to say I told you.”
“Got it. Hey, your catcher is eyeballing you for another pitch. Here she comes, Kodak, make it a good one.” I slipped him twenty bucks which was cheap, but it was all I could afford tonight. Besides that, he owed me a solid from last year. I never forget.
It was late, but I called my sister on the way home because I knew she’d still be waiting for her dickhead husband, who was living under a warning from me. “Hey Christine, can you talk?”
“I’ve got about ten minutes, then Bill will be home.”
“Everything going, okay?”
“Since you talked to him, yeah. He’s here every night, like clockwork.”
“Good to know. Hey Crissy, can you loan me two hundred bucks? I’ve got a good-paying case, but I sent most of the retainer I received today to Marilyn, so I’m a little short. I need to buy a guy tomorrow for some dirt I need for this investigation. I’ll be billing my client again soon.”
“I can do that. When do you want it?”
“When do you go to work?”
“Seven.”
Okay, I’ll meet you there. Thanks, Sistah. Don’t worry; this is a legit case. It could be a big one for me and get me back with Marilyn and Susie. God, I miss them both. I’ll be a better man when we do.”
“I know you will, Brudder. I know you will.”
I met Chrissy at the diner in the morning. I sat at the far end of the counter while she waited on other customers. Finally, she handed me my coffee with a napkin folded over two c-notes. “Thanks, Babe.”
She said, “Use it wisely,” and returned to her other customers.
Wentworth Sun Tours didn’t open until eight, so I drove around the city aimlessly, chewing up my precious gas. All of that will end soon.
Gary Truist was a small-frame, hatchet-faced guy who gave me the immediate impression that he could be bought. After shaking his limp hand, I got right to it. “A guy tells me you arrange island getaways for couples that want to fuck out each other’s brains. Ever deal with these two?” I showed the photo I had taken from Doreen’s room.
“Sure.”
“Both of them?”
“All three of them.”
My brain was scrambling, “When was the last trip?”
“For the holiday. Let’s see.” He started pecking at his keyboard with speed I didn’t think was humanly possible. Yup, here it is, Don and Loretta Linley and daughter Virginia. A group charter to Barbados.”
I showed him the picture again. “Are you sure?”
“Of course, see that big-ass watch?”
I think I’ve hit paydirt. I gave him one of the c-notes and my card with instructions to call if there are any other queries or bookings made by the Silvio/Linleys. He seemed satisfied with the one bill, which left me something for food. I left there feeling like I was on fire. I haven’t had this much excitement in a long time, and now, I’m driven. So, I went home to think, saving my gas for later. I fidget, my fingers drumming on something when I do this, so I start with a pad rather than a keyboard. Sometimes I draw circles and label them, then connect them with arrows. Today I drew three-dimensional boxes because I feel boxed in and want to break out.
I labeled one box “Jack” and one “Anna.” I drew a double-pointed arrow horizontally connecting the two boxes. Below each box, I vertically listed their appearance and demeanor. Jack had many more entries. However, I wrote “caution” under Anna because I think she might be an act. It’s hard to imagine a couple going to a swinging party with one partner acting like they would rather be home knitting. I think she was acting in my presence.
These notes gave me some direction. Then I drew a box labeled Doreen, centered below the others, and added notes about her drawings and web searches. That’s where the mystery lies. Everything visual in her room said, “Sweet kid,” except her finely drawn pictures on the calendar. I’m not naïve. This isn’t 1950; kids are maturing quicker and having sex, although possibly not coitus. My daughter, Susie’s image, flashed inside my head, and I shuddered. I didn’t want to think about that. So, after an hour of this bullshit, I’m no more directed than I was before I started, but I’m convinced that the daughter’s disappearance is linked to the swing gang. Then a terrible thought punched me in the gut. Was her disappearance an act of rebellion or a criminal act by her parents?
I popped a pod in the Keurig, then paced around my tiny apartment with a mug in my hand, thinking crazy thoughts because crazy things were happening. Did Mom and Pop bring their daughter into the sex scene willingly? Unwillingly? Or did Mom and Pop get rid of the kid? Either selling her to a trafficking ring or in a shallow grave. Jesus, this thing is tearing at my mind. I need to find someone who might have part of the answer, and that’s a nighttime job.
I left the house at 8 and went back into the MacArthur district, which was just beginning to wind up. A few girls walked the sidewalks in cheesy provocative outfits, looking like Pretty Woman before the makeover. Minimal covering, maximum exposure. The cops had long ago given up on hassling over the clothing. What the hell? Look at the Hollywood crowd on the red carpet. I wasn’t looking at the girls. I was looking for Tex Red. I doubt if this fuck had ever been south of the Connecticut River. Still, he fancied himself an All-around Rodeo Champion. He was sitting in the driver’s seat of a top-down ’02 El Dorado convertible with chrome trumpet horns on the fender and fake cattle horns mounted on the grille. His hat probably ran about twelve gallons, and his shiny red shirt had a yoke of blue and white fringe which ran down both sleeves. The cuffs were fastened with a row of fake pearl buttons. I couldn’t see the boots, but I imagined they were probably faux snakeskin. All he needed was a set of spurs. I tried not to laugh and couldn’t let this fuck wind me into anger. I had to stay calm and work him for information, not beat his fucking head on the street.
“How they hangin’, Tex.”
“What?” He shifted upward in the seat. “Oh, you, Tracy. Where you been, man. We ain’t seen you on the street since your sorry ass got canned. Stuffin’ anybody’s head in a toilet lately?”
“Don’t go there, Tex. I’m not in the mood.”
“So, whatcha want, man. I got a nice new one yesterday. Fresh and eager man, barely legal.
“Don’t go there either.” I relaxed my hands and took a deep breath.
“Yeah, yeah, whatcha want?” He pulled a bag of Bull Durham from his shirt pocket and started rolling a smoke. I bit my tongue.
“Information. I’m looking for this girl.” I took the photo from my pocket. “Ever see her?” Think hard.”
He hesitated, then snuffed his nose and said, “No, never. But the dude, I seen him.”
“You sure? How ‘bout the woman or the girl?”
“Him sure, her nah. The girl looks interesting….”
“I said, don’t’ go there. Tell me about the guy.”
“Big dollar guy, big ass Rolex, real, not a knock-off.”
I looked at the one on his wrist and chuckled. “So, why did ‘big bucks’ contact you?”
“He was looking for a little Chiquita to take on a trip.”
“Trip?”
“Yeah, man, he wants a young chicken to take to a barbeque in the islands somewhere.”
“Did you?”
“Fuck no, I protect my flock. I ain’t gonna send one of them out of range, and maybe they don’t come back. They is valuable merchandise, man.”
“Good to know. You’re a stand-up guy. Anything else?”
“Let me think…yeah, he say something about a club. Prob’ly some old fucks swinger thing. They charter a plane for some fun in the sun. Jesus, man, I tell him I can supply all the fun they need right here in the city. Save them some money. Shit, man, I don’ understand these people.”
“Did he say what island, airline, or anything that can give me some direction?”
“He say some guy, Gary something, handles the flights.”
“Truist?”
“I don’ know if it’s true or not.”
“Nothing with the woman or girl in the pic.”
“Nah, the woman looks iffy, the girl is cute, but I don’t handle kids.”
“Good thing. Let me ask you, if a kid like that ran away from home and ran to the streets, where could she go?”
“Well, the unlucky ones go to a hell they never imagined. The lucky ones, they maybe go to Sistah Elizabeth.”
“Tell me about her.”
“All Souls.”
“All souls what?”
“Shit, man, since yo’ ass got canned, you been out of touch. The mission on Montgomery, tell Sistah that Tex Red sent you.”
I slipped him my last c-note and my card. “Keep me posted.”
“I always appreciate a new customer.” He smiled broadly, so I could see his gold teeth. If he only knew how close he was to losing them, he wouldn’t be smiling. I patted his arm draped over the car door and walked away—proud of my new-found restraint. I headed to Montgomery.
All Souls was a garishly painted storefront tricked out by ghetto artists with spray paints. A bell tinkled above me as I opened the door. I was surprised by a bright interior with soft organ music playing from a speaker set on the floor in a corner behind a painted plywood pulpit. Six rows of assorted metal folding chairs were arrayed like soldiers facing it. There was a bead-stringed doorway at the right side of the back wall and a sweet floral scent coming from a plug-in room deodorizer. “Hello. Sister Elizabeth.” I called into the empty space.
I heard footsteps descending a wooden stair behind the curtained wall, not the heavy plodding steps I expected. So when Sister Elizabeth appeared through the beaded curtain, she was even more unexpected. I’m six-two, and she was nearly as tall. I’m casual with my work clothes, but I always wear a sports coat to cover my gun. Sister Elizabeth was wearing a fitted black dress with long sleeves and a hem that fell at her knees. She was standing in shiny black pumps with a moderate heel and wore a heavy link neck chain attached to a 3-inch silver cross centered between her breasts. Her hair was sleek and swept back into a bun. She was about forty, well-built, well-postured, and could have graced the runway with Heidi Klum.
“Hello, Sister, I’m….”
“I know who you are, Detective Tracy.” Her voice cut like an icicle.
“I’m self-employed now, Sister. I’m no longer with the police.”
She glanced at the ceiling, then directly at me. “Praise the Lord. You’ve done enough damage in this area.”
“Can we start over, sister?” I handed her my card, but we did not touch. “I’m down here trying to save a fifteen-year-old girl. I need help.” I showed her the picture.
She studied the card and the picture, then said, “Follow me.”
We went through the beaded curtain to a sitting area with a group of six matching dining room chairs around a scarred circular table with a bowl of tangerines in the center. The hanging overhead light fixture was missing one bulb.
“Sit.”
I pulled out a chair and obeyed her order as my eyes swiveled about the room.
“Coffee?”
“Black.”
She made two cups using a Keurig on a sink counter under the wooden stairs.
After she settled with the cups and took a sip, she said, “Tell me about your case but hold the names for now.
This is odd, but I went ahead to tell her what my suspicions and fears were. I gave her the picture again. She placed it on the table, then took her phone from a black leather holder velcroed to her left wrist and typed in a message using one hand. The other hand raised the cup to her lips which were colored with dark reddish lipstick.
She put the phone and the cup down and said, “Okay, so you’ve been hired by this wealthy couple because their daughter has not been seen in eight days, including today?”
I nodded.
You have evidence that they take part in intra-family fucking?” She saw my surprise and added, “Swinging, open marriage, swapping, whatever the term is today.”
“I got it.”
In the same monotonal delivery, she continued, “And you believe the child is either being coerced to take part and refusing or planning to drop a dime on her parents. So, they may have taken some drastic action against her, or she just got pissed and ran away?”
“All of the above.”
“Wait here.” Sister got up, took the pic, and went back upstairs, my eyes unashamedly following her shapely ass.
I heard a bed frame squeak, someone sat, then there was muffled conversation. Five minutes later, Sister returned, trailed by Doreen Silvio. I stood up and extended my hand. She hung back, looking scared, and did not accept it. I sat, then the others. Doreen looked down at her hands, saying nothing.
Sister asked, “Mr. Tracy, do you know who this is?”
“I do, but we’ve never met before.” I smiled at Doreen’s blank face.
“Doreen is in danger. She has told me some terrible things, which seemed odd until I spoke with you. Several things you told me corroborated her story. She is afraid of her parents, and she is afraid to go to the cops. She had done that once before, and her father was informed by them and punished her severely. Sister took Doreen’s arm and raised the sweatshirt sleeve. The ugly scar on the inside of her arm was a cigarette burn.
“Jesus! Sorry sister.” I spoke directly to Doreen. “Did your father do that?” She shook her head. “Mother?” She nodded. What the fuck kind of psycho family is this kid caught up in? I asked Sister, “Is she safe here?”
“For a while, you’re not the only one looking.”
“Okay, Doreen, I need a picture of your arm.” She looked at Sister. “Trust me, Sister.” Sister nodded; I took a pic with my phone.
My brain was in overdrive. Too much shit was flying at once, but I think I have a plan. “Can you get some soldiers over here to help out?”
“This is a house of worship, Mr. Tracy.”
“Okay, let me do it for you. Call it divine intervention. Take Doreen upstairs where she can wait safely for me to come back. Don’t worry, I will take care of this. Lock the front door after I leave. Do not open it for anyone until I return. Understood?” They both nodded. After they went upstairs, I called Tex Red, “Cowboy, it’s Tracy. I’m at All Souls. I need some soldiers over here to park in front. No one that’s not me is allowed inside. Maybe a couple of hours. Tell these guys I will pay them later. Okay? A young kid’s life is at stake. Are you down with this?”
“Yeah, I gotcha covered.”
Sister locked up. I flew home and typed up an invoice, then called Mutt from my car. I told him I cracked the case. He wanted details. I told him, “Later,” and he warned me not to get in the way. As I sped to Jack Silvio’s house, I called with the “good news” and gave him the final figure. I said I expected to pick up a check, and he agreed. I dodged his question by saying, “Wait ‘till you see what I’m bringing home.” I hung up and didn’t say “who.” I’m not sure how he reacted.
I sped up Maple Lawn and parked in Silvio’s driveway, diagonally, blocking it just in case. He greeted me at the door. “Come in.” He shook my hand and said, “Where is she?” I said, “Where’s my money?” He handed me the check and asked again, “Where’s Doreen?”
I responded, “Where’s Anna?”
He didn’t like this. A rat like him could smell a problem. “Where’s my daughter. You said you were bringing her home. What the fuck gives? Is this some kind of shakedown? I’ll call the police.”
“Where’s Anna.?”
He screamed to the upstairs. “Anna, get down here. Mr. Tracy has some scheme he’s playing.” Anna descended the stairs slowly. She wore a heavy white velour bathrobe with a resort crest over the left breast. Her face seemed clouded and unsure as if expecting trouble. She stopped at the bottom of the stair, steadying herself against the newel post.
Jack was agitated, “Okay, Tracy, where’s my daughter? Enough of this shit.”
I took out my phone and showed him her arm burn. He jolted back as if from a snake. “You sonofabitch! “He started screaming at me, and I was ready for his charge. But, Anna pulled a gun from the robe pocket and held it in two hands. I raised my hands and backed toward the door. Jack turned, and Anna shot him in the face. His body flew back against me, pressing me into the door. Anna stepped closer and shot him again. I gently took the gun from her hands and called Mutt.
The cops, the EMTs, and the M.E. arrived together. I met them at the door. I told Mutt what happened. We went into the dining room with Anna and sat at the table where we both made statements. She tearfully detailed every sordid moment, laying all the blame on her dead husband. The truth will probably never be known. I don’t give a shit.
I said my piece and hoped the check would clear. The TV breaking news called me a hero. Doreen went to her aunt’s home in Waterford. Marilyn said she needed a little more time, and I sent my daughter a birthday present. I called Sister Elizabeth, then went to All Souls with a bottle of wine and a small bouquet of mixed flowers.
[Image Credit : Photo by Oleksii S on Unsplash ]
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