Cache a Predator Read online

  Chapter Five

  Static from Brett’s radio echoed off the walls of Quinn’s empty bedroom. Empty in that she wasn’t there. But everything else was—the clothes in her closet, toys in the corner, her lime-green piggy bank on the dresser.

  The dispatcher’s voice sounded, breaking the silence. “Unit twenty-four, unit twenty-five. There’s someone here at the office I need you to see. 10-4.” The static clicked off.

  Clay finished putting his pick away before he unclipped his radio and spoke into it. “We’ll be there in a few. We’re about fifteen minutes away.”

  Brett stood in the center of the room, numb, panic filling every nerve fiber. A low humming throbbed in his ears. Oblivious to the radio, he searched for clues and licked his lips. “Where is she?” He moved to the window. The curtains billowed out and flapped in the wind. “Do you think she left through here?” Brett glanced out the opening and below at the humming air conditioning unit.

  “It’s possible. All she had to do was step out onto the unit, and away she’d go.”

  “But what about Max? If someone took her he’d still be here. Unless she took him with her?

  Static from the radio came again. The dispatcher said, “Reed, this is about your daughter.”

  Brett unclipped his radio, frantic. His heartbeat soared. “Is she there?”

  “No, but we know where she is. Chief says to get over here.”

  “Where is she? Is she safe? What happened?” Brett’s voice raised two notches as he fired the questions.

  When the dispatcher didn’t respond, his eyes darted from the open window to Clay. His heart drummed in his ears. Why wasn’t she answering his questions?

  Ali stumbled into the room, her eyes squinting and puffy. She leaned against the doorjamb. “Where is she? What happened?”

  Brett turned to her, his fists clenched at his sides. “You tell me. You were supposed to be watching her! What kind of mother are you, anyway?” He stormed out of the house, leaving Ali crying in a heap on the floor at the door, still wearing her nightgown and smelling like booze. His heart raced as he wondered where Quinn could be and why the chief wanted him to come to the station.

  #

  When Brett entered the Hursey Park Police Precinct, the staff turned mute. Officers stared. Was it his imagination or had something terrible happened to Quinn? His heart thundered in his chest.

  The receptionist pointed to the chief’s office. Brett ran down the hallway. Clay followed.

  Mrs. Finkle, an elderly neighbor who lived down the street from Ali, sat in a chair across from the chief. She wore her usual flowered dress—the kind Brett’s grandmother used to wear ten years ago. Chief Dunson motioned for Brett and Clay to come in and close the door.

  Brett turned to Mrs. Finkle. “What are you doing here? Where’s Quinn?”

  Chief motioned for Brett to sit.

  Brett couldn’t. “Is she hurt? What happened?”

  He glanced at the chief and then to Mrs. Finkle. “Do you have her?”

  Mrs. Finkle wrung her hands and turned to the chief as if waiting for him to answer. Chief Dunson motioned for Brett to sit down again. Brett ran his fingers through his hair.

  Clay, who’d taken a seat, reached and took Brett’s arm, guiding him into the chair. Finally, Brett slumped into the seat.

  Chief spoke first. “It seems your neighbor”—he motioned toward Mrs. Finkle—“found Quinn in the middle of the street a block away from your home early this morning.”

  Brett scooted to the edge of his chair and leaned toward the chief. “What? Why? Is she okay?” He turned to Mrs. Finkle. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  Chief added, “Yes, she’s okay. Mrs. Finkle said Quinn told her Ali was asleep on the sofa, but she had to find Max because he ran away.”

  Brett fell back in his seat and exhaled. “Oh, thank God she’s okay.” He turned to the chief and back to Mrs. Finkle. “Where’s she now?”

  Chief waved his hand. “She’s safe.”

  Mrs. Finkle’s voice trembled, and she moved her thumb over her fingers repeatedly. “She was so upset. Poor thing.” She glanced at the chief and then to Brett. “I didn’t want to go into your home, so … so … I brought her here.” She looked at the chief as if wanting affirmation for doing the right thing. Her stuttering voice sounded shaky, and the loose flesh on her jowls jiggled as she spoke. “The child was distraught.” She paused like she was vamping up courage. “A young child shouldn’t be left to fend for herself like that. I’ve seen her playing outside before, too, unsupervised—in her pajamas, no shoes on. It happens all the time, and it’s just not right.”

  Brett hated knowing Quinn had needed him and he hadn’t been there. “I need to see her, let her know everything is okay. Did you see Max?”

  Mrs. Finkle narrowed her eyes at Brett. “No, but I saw your car at the house this morning. I figured you knew your wife’s, uh, condition.” She turned to the chief. “That woman isn’t right.” She glared at Brett. “And what kind of father would leave a child in her care?”

  Acid churned in Brett’s stomach. He gripped the arms of the chair before he turned toward her again. “Ali is my ex-wife, and, unfortunately, the courts decided to place Quinn with her. I didn’t get to decide.”

  Mrs. Finkle looked away.

  Brett sighed. It wouldn’t do any good for him to make an enemy of her. Maybe she could be a witness for his defense. He tried to mellow his attitude toward her. “Thanks for bringing her here, Mrs. Finkle. You’re right—the way Ali neglects Quinn is wrong. Would you be willing to tell the courts what you’ve seen?”

  Mrs. Finkle’s eyes widened and she nodded, seemingly surprised at Brett’s reaction.

  Chief motioned toward Clay. “Mrs. Finkle, Officer Rizzo will take you home now.”

  The old lady reached for the desk, gripping it with both hands, seeming to steady herself as she stood. Her face puffed and turned red as she lifted her large, sagging body. “I don’t need anyone to take me home. I drove here, and I can drive myself home.” She clutched her purse to her bosom.

  Clay moved to her side. “Then allow me to escort you to your car, ma’am.”

  “Thank you for helping Quinn, Mrs. Finkle.” Brett stared at the chief. Where was Quinn? “Clay, can you check at the pound to see if they found Max?”

  “Sure.”

  The lady shuffled out the door with Clay at her side.

  Brett turned to the chief, who had come around his desk to close the door.

  The chief carried his stout, muscle-tight frame back to his seat, plucked his unlit cigar from the ashtray, and met Brett’s eyes. “Obviously, something is amiss with Ali, but Quinn is safe right now. She’s with Peggy Turnball from CPS. She took her to a counselor for an assessment.”

  “Aw, come on. Why did you have to call them?”

  “I’m sorry, Reed, but according to state laws we have to investigate this. We have to make sure there hasn’t been any neglect …” He hesitated. “Or abuse.”

  Brett jumped out of his chair. “Abuse? Is she hurt? Did she say someone hurt her?”

  The chief motioned for Brett to pipe down. He spoke in his usual low, monotone voice, the cigar dangling from his mouth. “I don’t know if she’s been physically harmed, so let’s not get carried away. But an investigation needs to be done. The child said she was locked in her bedroom. The fact that her mother put her there, and then couldn’t answer the door, is disturbing.” He paused. “I sent Officer Hudson to the house too. She rang the bell, but couldn’t get a response either.”

  Brett stared at the floor and exhaled. “I agree it looks bad. I don’t know why Ali locked Quinn in her room. It makes me sick right here.” He slammed his fist into his stomach. “But this is what I’ve been battling for six years. The woman has problems. I’m hoping now the courts will decide that she’s an unfit mother.” He exhaled loudly. “I want custody. It’s the only chance Quinn has.” His voice trailed as he rose from his chair and went to the windo
w, where he stared out at the street.

  The chief said, “I understand and agree, but you’re going to have to play this out. You aren’t supposed to be going near her. Don’t screw up your chances. Let’s take this one step at a time.”

  “I had to go. Quinn called. I couldn’t ignore her.”

  Chief shook his head. “I’m sure this is difficult. I figured Ali had started using again. Your tardiness, black circles under your eyes—it’s putting a toll on you. Most of us here have had domestic problems, but putting a kid at risk is different. Hopefully this will settle soon, and you’ll get Quinn. Why don’t you stay home for a few days … just until this gets worked out?” He stood and crossed the room. Just before he opened his door, he squeezed Brett’s shoulder.

  “Thanks.” Brett met the chief’s eyes. “I appreciate that, but I need this job. I have bills to pay.”

  “I understand.” He paused. “But this is your kid we’re talking about. For what it’s worth, I believe you’re a good father. I hope the courts see that soon.”

  A lump lodged in Brett’s throat. Great! He hadn’t cried since he was a teenager. He swallowed but didn’t trust himself to speak. Thankfully, the department secretary buzzed the chief’s office intercom.

  “Excuse me, sir, but there are a couple of boy scouts here with something to show you.” She lowered her voice to just about a whisper. “I think it might be that guy’s, uh, chicken.”

  “What are you talking about?” the chief bellowed.

  “You know”—she cleared her throat—“that guy who had his ding-a-ling whacked off … well that thing is here. These boys found it.”

  #

  I reached into the backseat for my computer and opened it. Slowly, the machine came to life, whirring and dinging. Courthouse Coffee had great coffee and free wireless. It was one of my favorite spots to do research. Today, like several days a week, I parked in their parking lot facing the lake while Google-searching and eating lunch. The cloudless sky reflected off the water, making the waves look navy blue. I slipped on my sunglasses, and in between bites of my ham sandwich, I researched sex offenders.

  To find them, I typed “sex offenders in Stark County” in the search box. Up popped a map and a list with their names, age, eye color, weight, and what they were charged with. There were 108 in our county. They had to register their addresses. It was the law.

  I scanned the map, looking for new offenders. There hadn’t been any new ones added. I’d already memorized the location of the six on my target list. They were the ones who hurt children. And they lived closest to me. I didn’t want to go too far from home.

  Next, I typed in the address geocache.com to check for new cache listings. There weren’t any. I’d memorized the location of those sites I planned to use several days ago. There were ten within four miles of where I lived. It was fun to find them. I went late at night when people were sleeping. I wore night goggles.

  Chapter Six

  Dr. Sarah Grinwald, a psychologist and a part-time caseworker for Child Protective Services, waited in her new office overlooking Hursey Lake Beach for her next patient. She sat on the sofa looking out the large triple window watching the lake’s waves as they reflected off the afternoon summer sun. She sighed. What a view.

  Her old office working for CPS had been downtown, below her apartment, but when she inherited her mother’s family estate and no longer needed to pay rent, she decided to splurge on this peaceful lake location and go into practice for herself, taking only occasional CPS cases. When the lake office became available, she’d snatched it in a hurry, knowing her patients would find solace there—as she did. The few who’d been there already had commented on how they wished their lives were as calm as the setting.

  Sarah figured if her patients had a view of the lake during their session, they’d be more relaxed, which meant they’d open up more.

  To the right of the large picture window was another smaller window that faced a cluster of pine trees, opening up to a hiking trail—something Sarah enjoyed. She kept her hiking boots at the office in case she had a spare hour to hike or geocache—one of her favorite hobbies. She loved the outdoors and the thrill of a grown-up treasure hunt.

  With as much snow as they typically got in the winter, Sarah envisioned that sitting in her office would be like living in the middle of a snow globe.

  Today, she watched the hummingbirds fly to the nectar she’d left for them outside the window. The birds’ colors brought a rainbow splash to the green-treed backdrop behind it.

  As she sat there, a robin flew into the window, startling her. She flinched as the bird flapped its wings and hit the glass again. And again. Poor thing. He was going to die if he kept it up. She made a mental note to hang something to deter it from happening again. Hadn’t she read somewhere that a fake snake would work? Maybe she could get her brother to help her the next time he stopped by.

  She tried to focus on charting her last patient’s history. She’d met Eva at the homeless shelter while volunteering. The troubled woman had looked scared, glancing over her shoulder as if someone might pounce on her from the shadows. Sarah hadn’t seen fear like that in a woman in a long time, but she recognized it.

  Why did some men think it was necessary to harass, intimidate, and belittle women? There could only be one reason—to make the man feel more powerful. Which made Sarah sick. Eva told her she couldn’t afford a counselor, but Sarah offered to help her pro bono. Sometimes helping someone who couldn’t pay gave her more gratification than a paying client. They were more receptive to change and getting the help they needed.

  A knock came from the door. Sarah rose to open it, assuming it would be Peggy Turnball, a fellow caseworker from Child Protective Services. She’d called fifteen minutes ago and asked if Sarah had time to assess a patient.

  Peggy stood holding a little girl’s hand. The girl wore purple pajamas, and her dark curls hung down past her shoulders. Eyes, translucent like the surface of a swimming pool under a blue sky, stared back at her. The child looked pale and frightened. She bent her head and stuck her thumb in her mouth while twisting her pajama top in her fist.

  Peggy said, “Hi, Dr. Sarah, this is Quinn.”

  Sarah recognized the exhaustion in Peggy’s eyes. They’d been caseworkers for CPS for several years at the downtown office. The wrinkled lines of worry in Peggy’s brow told how overworked she was, which was why Sarah had decided to go out on her own. She continued to work for CPS on an as-needed basis, especially when there was a child custody case involving a government employee.

  Sarah embraced Peggy, then knelt in front of Quinn. “How old are you?”

  Quinn looked the other way, avoiding Sarah’s eyes.

  “I bet you’re six, right?”

  Quinn shook her head. “Five.”

  “You’re tall for your age. Come on in.”

  Peggy stepped into the room and shut the door. “I told Quinn you’re one of the best listeners around and that you have a horse.” Peggy winked at Sarah. “Quinn said she wants to have her own farm someday so she can have lots of animals.”

  Sarah chuckled. “Oh, I love animals too. Would you like to play with the toys while I talk to her?” She pointed to Peggy.

  Quinn nodded. Sarah led her to the corner of the room, showing her the boxes of puzzles and books. She pulled out a little chair for the child to sit on. “Would you like to play with a toy horse?”

  Quinn nodded.

  Sarah stooped to lift the toy box lid in the corner and handed her a small plastic thoroughbred. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to walk Mrs. Turnball to the door, okay? Then we can talk horses for a while.”

  Quinn smiled.

  Sarah sighed as she walked Peggy to the door. “What happened?”

  Peggy lowered her voice. “Seems the neighbor found her in the street abandoned and crying. Possible neglect. She was supposed to be under the mother’s care, but no one answered her door. Her father’s a cop. Divorce situation. He’s be
en ordered to take anger management classes. His wife filed a protective order against him.”

  Sarah’s heart ached for the little girl. Even though she’d seen abuse and neglect before, it still affected her the same way. It was wrong on every level, which was exactly why she had become a counselor.

  She’d studied the cop type before too—the power-hungry, macho types—and counseled their battered wives. She scolded herself for judging. As a counselor she was supposed to remain neutral, but it was difficult. “Do they know where the mother is?”

  Peggy shrugged. “Not yet. The neighbor thought she might have addiction problems.” Peggy opened the door. “I’ll be back at four. I hope to have a family member or a foster family for her by then. I’ve got to make a few calls. Call me.”

  “Does she have other family?”

  “Not sure if there’s anyone else yet.”

  After Peggy left, Sarah joined Quinn at the children’s table. Quinn had taken another toy horse out of the bin and set it on the table in front of her with the other one. Quinn’s feet dangled over the edge of her seat, her legs not long enough to reach the floor. She took her thumb out of her mouth and made the horses gallop across the table.

  Sarah sat in a chair and pulled it closer to Quinn’s. “What kind of animals would you have on your farm?”

  Quinn stared out the window, swinging her legs and licking her bottom lip.

  Sarah used her soft voice. “I have an Arabian horse named Beauty. She’s black like Black Beauty. Have you heard that story?”

  Quinn finally turned to Sarah and shook her head.

  “I’d love to read it to you, if you’d like. I have the book over there on my shelf.” Sarah nodded toward the bookshelf against the wall. “Would you like to go look for it?”

  Quinn nodded.

  “Go ahead. There are lots of horse books there. You pick one you like. Black Beauty has a picture of a black horse on the front cover.”