Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 60360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
Attached to the back of the dresser was a large mirror. Izzy crossed the room to get a closer look. Ignoring her own reflection, she saw Scotch tape along the length of it. The edges of a few photos remained. They’d been torn off when picking the tape had apparently become too tedious. A sliver of blue sky marked the corner, under it a sign, but it had been sheared off. ‘BA- NA’ the sign had said. Izzy sighed and slid a fingernail underneath what was left of the photograph. If this was all she had to go on, her hopes of finding Jeter and getting the payoff were dwindling. She knew the photo was important, though, so she pocketed it.
Pop had always said people kept the things that meant the most where they could see them every day. Photographs, mementos. Show Izzy a person’s room and she could put together the puzzle of who they were, or who they wanted to be. Deciding she’d been in the apartment long enough and that she’d get no more from it, she headed back to the door and locked it behind her. As she passed the old man’s door, she nodded sharply at the peephole, which was darkened and she knew he was watching her. She held her head high, like she belonged there, and made her way toward the stairs.
Once outside, she slid the cell phone from her pocket and pressed a key. She speed-dialed the precinct and Vernita’s brusque voice answered immediately.
“Hey, V. It’s Izzy.”
“Well, at least you’re still alive,” the older woman gruffed. “For now.”
Izzy smirked and turned off her car’s alarm. “Listen,” she said, as she slid into the driver’s seat, “what’s the scuttlebutt about Paul?” Vernita wouldn’t have any first-hand knowledge of any particular clues Denver PD may have found when they searched the apartment, but cops were a gabby bunch and if you wanted to know the lay of the land, Vernita was the person to ask. She knew everything from how much the janitor got paid to who was on the short list for Commissioner.
Vernita sighed and though Izzy couldn’t see her, the accompanying eye roll was implied. “Mexico,” she drawled.
Izzy nearly laughed. Of course. Paul had been headed to the interstate. Izzy supposed it was possible that he was headed across the border. But in her experience, desperate people tended to stick to what they knew. And hiding out in a foreign country wasn’t all that appealing to most people.
“His mama lives in Kirkwood,” Vernita offered.
Izzy cranked the Charger’s engine. “Thanks, V,” she replied and disconnected. She rolled out of the lot and back onto Vine. Kirkwood was a nicer area, though not by a whole lot. It tended toward older, retired folks, though no one with anything like a 401(k).
As she cruised to the other side of town, she rolled the windows down and breathed in the crisp, fall air. Denver was a great town. She’d lived here all her life. But it seemed different now since Pop had died, more hollow somehow. She knew the streets as well as any cop or cabbie, but it just seemed like information now, bits of data that her mind had stored. She didn’t want to stop for a gyro at Rudy’s anymore, because she and Pop had eaten there almost every Friday night. She didn’t want to go to the movies, either, because they’d always gone together. At first, Izzy had simply felt sorry for her dad, alone now that her mother was gone, and had made sure he wasn’t sitting at home in front of the TV every night. It hadn’t taken long for it to become their thing: gyros and a movie on Friday. It was a nice change from hunting skips in dirty alleys and arguing with relatives about financial liability.
Izzy pulled up to the house of Jeter Paul’s closest living relative and shut off the Charger’s engine. Relatives were hit or miss, as far as cooperation was concerned. In Izzy’s experience, unless mom’s house had been used as collateral for bail, they weren’t likely to get any useful information about where to start looking. Izzy jogged up the porch steps and rang the doorbell. A dog’s bark sounded in response, but it was a yapper not a pit, and so Izzy wasn’t worried. Her ankles were well-protected by her boots.
The front door opened and a woman stood in the frame. Izzy guessed she was about Pop’s age. She smiled. The woman did not return the sentiment. A black fluff ball that might have been a poodle yipped at her feet.
“Already talked to the police.”
Izzy kept smiling. “I know, Mrs. Paul, but we really, really do need to find Jeter. And the girl,” she said, reminding the woman of the stakes. The old lady winced.