A door halfway along the corridor opened and a portly man in civilian clothes stepped through, holding a file. He walked to the waiting area, stopped short of Stratton and looked around. ‘Is there a John Stratton here?’ he asked.
‘I’m Stratton.’
The man, in his forties, was without doubt a cop: he looked as though he had been in the job for most of his life. He glanced at Stratton over the rims of his glasses, weighing him up. ‘How can I help you, sir?’
Stratton held his frustration at bay. He had pain stakingly explained every detail of his concerns to the desk officer and now this guy was acting as if he knew nothing. ‘I’m looking for a woman named Sally Penton and her son, Josh. I believe she was in some kind of trouble and she may be hurt.’
‘And where are you from, sir?’
‘England.’
‘And how long have you been here in the United States?’
‘I flew in today.’
‘You can prove that?’
Stratton dug into his pocket and pulled out his UK passport. The stub of his boarding pass was inside it and he handed both items to the officer, who inspected each page. ‘They also took my fingerprints and photograph at Immigration.’
The officer ignored him until he got to the end of the passport and compared Stratton’s photograph with the man himself. ‘Are you a relative of this woman, sir?’
‘No. She’s a close friend.’
‘Why do you think she’s been in some kind of trouble?’
‘She called me on my phone. She was screaming. It sounded like a scuffle, a fight, then all I could hear was crying which I think was Josh, her son.’
‘She called you at your home?’
‘My mobile phone.’
‘What’s the number of your phone?’
Stratton dug it out of his pocket, hit a key, and showed the face to the officer who took it and wrote the number in the file. ‘Do you know anything about her?’ Stratton asked.
‘And you flew in from England, you said?’
‘No. Austria.’
‘You got here pretty quick.’
‘There’s a nine-hour time difference between Central Europe and the USA’s West Coast. Look, do you know anything?’
The officer removed his glasses and squeezed the bridge of his nose with his fingers as if he was tired. ‘I’m afraid your friend …’ He paused to check the name on the file. ‘Your friend Sally Penton is dead.’
The statement hit Stratton like a bolt of lightning although outwardly he remained unmoved. More than a decade and a half of wars and violent conflicts had hardened his reaction to any kind of bad news but this revelation stretched his control to its limits. ‘How?’
‘Was Sally into drugs?’
‘What?’
‘Drugs. She was driving through a pretty rough neighbourhood.’
‘She was not into drugs. What happened?’
‘We don’t know much. Looks like gang-bangers.’
‘Was she raped?’
‘Doesn’t look like it. This ain’t official, but the initial report on the scene was that her neck was broke. Looked like someone bust in the windshield and dragged her outta the vehicle onto the hood.’
Stratton was shocked. This was very different from a friend dying in combat. ‘What about Josh?’
‘The boy’s okay. Shaken up but he wasn’t hurt.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Child-protection agency.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘You gonna be in town long?’
The thought had not occurred to Stratton but the way things looked the answer was obvious. ‘As long as it takes to get Josh home,’ was all he could think to say.
‘Where you staying?’
‘I don’t know.’
The officer took a card from his pocket, scribbled something on the back and handed it to Stratton. ‘That’s the protection centre. It ain’t far from here. I’m Sergeant Draper. Those are my numbers. Let me know where you’re staying.’
The officer’s mobile phone rang in his pocket. He took it out and put it to his ear. ‘Draper here.’
Stratton walked over to a chair where his backpack was, picked it up, and walked away.
‘Hey, check back in a day or so and we may have something,’ Draper called after him, but Stratton was already halfway along the corridor and heading for the exit.
Half an hour later, Stratton climbed out of the back of a yellow taxi, carrying his backpack. He faced a gate in a high fence that ran along the front of an open grassy area beyond which stood a large 1960s-style single-storey building. The taxi pulled away as he approached the gate and pushed it open.
Lights were on inside the building that had bars on all of the blind-covered windows. But there was no sign of life.
Stratton checked his watch. It was after six p.m.
As he approached the wooden entrance doors they opened and a young, conservatively dressed woman walked out, carrying a laptop case over her shoulder and an armful of files. She glanced at Stratton as she closed the door behind her. Then she made a point of checking it was firmly locked, as if she had decided that he was a suspicious character.
‘Excuse me,’ Stratton said.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked in a serious tone, looking him up and down.
‘I’m here to see a boy who was brought in today or last night, I don’t know which.’
‘The facility is closed to visitors right now. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.’
‘Do you work here?’
‘Yes,’ the woman said, sounding tired and eager to get going.
She was attractive despite her frumpy clothes. Her fatigued eyes made her look older than she probably was.
‘Could you just tell me if you know anything about a young English boy who was brought in today or last night?’ Stratton asked, restraining his temper.
‘We get a lot of children brought in every day. Like I said, you’ll have to come back tomorrow,’ she replied, impervious to his persistence. She was not a tough woman by nature but years of practice dealing with hostile parents and guardians had inured her to confrontations.
Stratton could see that he was up against a wall because of the way he was handling this so he took his attitude down a couple of notches. ‘I know it’s late but I’ve come a long way – is it too much for you to tell me if he’s okay? That’s all I want to know and I’ll go. He’s six years old, English, his name’s Josh—’
The door to the centre opened and a stout black lady wearing thick bifocals leaned out. ‘Oh, Vicky, you’re still here. Do you know where the DCS 4334 forms are? I’ve looked everywhere.’
Vicky looked around at her.
‘They’re the court medical-consent emergency worksheet forms,’ the black lady said.
‘I know what they are, Dorothy,’ Vicky sighed, frustrated at her unsuccessful efforts to get away from the building. ‘Have you tried the bottom drawer of the second filing cabinet to the right of my desk?’
‘Uh-huh. They ain’t in there.’
‘I’ll come and look,’ Vicky said, heading back to the door.
‘That’s okay,’ Dorothy said. ‘It can wait till tomorrow. You run along and have yourself some fun. You spend too long in this building as it is.’
‘I’ll look for them,’ Vicky said as she reached the door.
‘No,’ Dorothy said, trying to act firm though she was obviously a subordinate. A grin crept onto her face. ‘I didn’t know you had company.’
‘Dorothy,’ Vicky said, feigning anger through clenched teeth.
‘Okay, okay,’ Dorothy said, stepping aside to let her through. ‘Sorry. She won’t be a minute,’ she said to Stratton, the grin remaining on her face as she checked him out.