Jazz laid down by the food bowl, exhausted by her efforts.
“It’s a good thing you can’t talk.” I put the empty plate and mug into the sink. “Otherwise you’d have to tell me what a jealous bitch I am and I’d have to kill you.”
She rolled onto her back and closed her eyes.
My first stop was over on Queen Street West to a handful of soup kitchens delivering breakfast to street youth. It was a far cry from cinnamon rolls and coffee, but the boxes of cold cereal, cartons of milk and juice boxes offered at least some attempt at a healthy start to the day. The workers shrugged when I showed them the pictures. They saw so many young men and women going through that the faces turned into a never-ending blur.
I thought back to Stacy Hampton, the social worker over at Second Chance, Second Life a few blocks away. There was a chance Bran had already visited her but it wouldn’t hurt to check.
I also didn’t discount the possibility that Bran intentionally omitted it due to his family’s connection.
A short hop on a streetcar brought me back to the renovated storefront. No one was hanging around the door—they didn’t open until noon. A hand lettered sign on the front door announced reporters were not welcome and no statements would be made. A lawyer’s phone number completed the visual slapdown.
I went around the back and rang the doorbell on the receiving dock. A thick-necked man opened the door and glared at me.
“You ain’t no delivery girl.”
“Thanks for the update. I’m here to see Stacy. Tell her Rebecca Desjardin is here.” I eyed the prison tattoos on his knuckles. “She’ll see me.”
“She ain’t seeing no reporters,” the human wall rumbled. “Didn’t you see the note on the front door?”
“I’m not a reporter. I’m a private investigator.”
“A what?”
“A P.I. Just like you see in the movies. Except I’m shorter.” I winked. “And cuter.”
His lips curled up into something resembling a smile. “Stay here.” The door slammed shut in my face.
I rocked back and forth on my heels, listening to the chatter inside. Felis hearing didn’t mean I could listen through walls but it did make it easier to eavesdrop.
One man arguing about the quality of bread dropped off by a local bakery. Another complaining about his probation officer busting his balls for missing an appointment. A series of curses from my original greeter as he approached the door, most of them involving body parts I didn’t possess.
It opened all the way this time.
“Stacy says to take you to her office.” The large man smiled again. “Follow me, please.”
I followed him past the two men working on the dock, busy loading boxes of fresh broccoli onto tables to be sorted.
Stacy’s office hadn’t changed from the last time I’d been there, the motivational posters of penguins and kittens still extolling viewers to do their best and never give up.
“Ms. Desjardin. Good to see you.” She waved me into the empty chair as she closed the door. “Thanks, John.”
The ex-con left us alone.
I sat down. “How are you doing?”
It wasn’t an idle question. When the story behind the murder of Molly Callendar and the kidnapping of her newborn son had come out, the media had hammered on the charity’s door non-stop, looking for more lurid details about the life and death of Keith Shaw.
Not many organizations could have taken the scrutiny and survived.
I wasn’t sure this one had.
She looked exhausted, the dark circles under her eyes poking through the make-up. Her shoulders slumped under the cream-colored blouse.
“Better than can be expected.” The blonde nodded toward the docks. “Fellows are on their best behavior since the incident, afraid the place’ll shut down if there’s another problem and they’ll have to go find something else. They’ve been great.”
The elephant in the room sat between us.
“I wasn’t sure you’d see me.” I sat back, letting the brown envelope holding the photographs flop around. “I wouldn’t have blamed you for telling me to screw off.”
“You’re not to blame for anything. You were looking for a killer and you found him.” Stacy let out a weary sigh. “It’s just too bad it was one of my boys. We try and we try but you can’t save everyone.”
I nodded. The fallout over Shaw had gone deep into the charity and the organizations who contributed to it. If the shelter survived another year they’d be out of the headlines but it’d be a hard, rough year for Stacy and her staff.
“But that’s in the past.” She leaned forward wearing a tired smile, her elbows on the thin brown desk organizer. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for two teenagers.” I slid the photographs across the table. “I know you usually only get older folks here but I figured it was worth a shot.”
Stacy turned them to face her and studied the cheerful faces. “Can I keep these?”
“Sure.” I rattled the envelope. “I’ve got extras.”
“I’ll put them up by the serving area so my people can see them. They rotate through serving and clean-up duties but you never know.” She paused and I saw the curiosity in her eyes.
I didn’t say anything. Sometimes silence is as good as giving permission.
“How is Mr. Hanover doing?”
For a second I thought she was talking about Michael, Bran’s father and I wondered why she’d be asking me about a man who’d tried to blackmail me and destroy my life. “Oh you mean Bran. He’s doing okay.”
“We were shocked by the entire situation. It was just—” She pushed the pictures to one side, shaking her head. “I still can’t wrap my mind around it.” She drew a deep breath. “Is he helping you look for these runaways?”
“Yes.” I didn’t feel compelled to explain why Bran wasn’t there with me.
“Does he seem, well, obsessed with finding them?”
I took a minute to answer. “He’s been in touch with one of the ‘kids’ from his article. Came across her at another outreach. She got her act together and got a job helping street kids out.”
“Hmm.” Stacy looked over at one of the motivational posters. “Is she doing well?”
“Better than before.” The sarcasm in my tone wasn’t intentional.
Stacy licked her lips before speaking, her eyebrows drawing together. “I may be speaking out of turn but you understand this may be a bit traumatic for him.”
“I know he was quite invested in the street life.” I’d read Bran’s article not long after we’d gotten together. It was intense and vibrant and deserved every accolade it got.
“Then you know about DJ.” Stacy picked up on my blank response. “Dan and Jane. The two doomed lovers and all that.”
I shifted on the cold metal seat. “I know about them.”
“Street kids called them DJ because they hung together all the time, couldn’t pull them apart. Word was that even in death they had their arms around each other.” She looked down at the images. “I always enjoyed that part in the article about Brandon and the two runaways bonding over a couple of joints and a case of beer. Seemed almost too good to be true but I know Brandon wouldn’t lie.”
She was right, in a way.
It wasn’t a total lie.
The real story hadn’t gotten into print, hadn’t even been a series of pencil scribbles in his notebook.
I’d quizzed Bran on that after reading the article and sensing something was missing, something more than the simple tale he’d woven.
Some of the kids, for a mean laugh, had spiked Bran’s drink with a heavy street narcotic. It was a hazing of sorts, a test to see if the smart-ass reporter was worthy of hanging with them.
They figured it’d knock Bran down for the night, have him pissing his pants and acting like a fool.