Every Last Fear(81)
Evan let out an exasperated sigh. “I mean it. If I say you need to leave, then…”
Maggie smiled, already tying the laces on her sneakers.
They rode the bikes along the dark road, Evan wondering if this was a mistake. Maggie was in front of him, her hair in a thick braid swaying back and forth like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. For some reason he thought of the out-of-place clock in Dr. Silverstein’s office. He saw lights up ahead.
When they reached the intersection, Maggie waited for Evan, eyeing the map on her phone. “Not too much farther,” she said. “The place is just off the main drag.”
They continued on the dark asphalt, music floating in the wind now, the lights in the distance brighter. Maggie led the charge as they pedaled around clusters of pedestrians and to the Moloko Bar, which was just around the bend from an outdoor cantina. Even this late, the area was bustling.
Maggie stopped across the street from Moloko. She looked conflicted, like she wanted to say something.
“Everything okay?” Evan asked.
“Just be careful, all right?”
Evan smiled, got off the bike, and crossed the street.
The doorman looked at him wearily, as if Evan was the sad old guy at the club. But he waved Evan through.
Inside was what he’d expected: large crowd. Pulsing dance music. The smell of perfume and sweat. He scanned the faces, looking for her. It was at times like this, unexpected, unusual, that he had moments of clarity. Charlotte wasn’t here. He was chasing a ghost. Wasting his final days before Magpie went to college. Squandering his life with Liv and Tommy. Ruining his relationship with Matt. He needed to let this go.
But he was here. Might as well …
He navigated through the crowd and made it to the bartender. The barman had tattoo sleeves and a hipster beard. He wasn’t Mexican, but it wasn’t clear he was American, either.
The music was loud. The guy shouted over the noise, “What can I get you, mate?” He had an Australian accent.
Evan laid a five-hundred-peso bill on the bar, if only because that was what they did in the movies and TV when they were trying to get information. He held out his phone, displaying a photo of Charlotte.
“I’m trying to find my daughter,” he lied. He assumed the bartender might be more sympathetic to a father than if he thought Evan was a cop or a private investigator or a creepy old guy looking for a young woman.
Evan waited for him to say he’d never seen her before, that he was sorry he couldn’t help.
The bartender smoothed a hand over his beard, then closed his fist around the money.
“Yeah, I’ve seen her.”
CHAPTER 51
SARAH KELLER
Keller awoke to the buzz of her phone. She was disoriented for a moment, trying to comprehend why her nightstand was different, the window of her bedroom not where it should be, then she remembered. Nebraska. The motel. The old alarm clock said it was only 11:40 P.M., but she’d been in a deep sleep. She was going to ignore the call, but it might be Bob, an emergency with the twins.
The number was from Mexico. Keller sat up, switched on the lamp, swiped the device.
“It’s Carlita Escobar.”
Keller’s thoughts were still fuzzy, and she blanked for a second. But then the fog lifted. Of course, the consular officer, Carlita “No Relation” Escobar.
“Hi, yes, thanks for getting back to me.”
“I’m sorry, did I wake you? You said to call when I got news, no matter the time. I can call back tomorrow.”
“No, please…”
“I’ve identified the girl.”
“Hank?” Keller asked.
“Her real name is Joanna Grace. She went by Joey. It turns out she is from Oklahoma, but she’s no hairdresser.”
Keller felt a rush of adrenaline. The fake persona confirmed that her meeting with Matt was no accident, that she’d lured him off with her, likely to deliver him to someone, until she apparently had a change of heart.
“She’s a party girl,” Escobar continued. “Works for a company out of New York.”
“You mean a prostitute?” Keller was on her feet now, pacing.
“Not quite. I checked into it, and her employer is basically like a leasing company. But instead of renting products, it’s pretty girls. Nightclubs and resorts pay to have American girls hang out at their establishments; it’s like a temp service.”
“That’s an actual thing, go figure.”
“In my day, the clubs had ladies’ night, but I guess that’s not enough anymore,” Escobar said. “I suspect some of the girls make money on the side doing more than looking pretty, but it’s otherwise a legitimate business.”
“Did you speak with her?”
There was a long beat of silence. “No. The reason we identified her so quickly was that some of the other girls in her troupe—they’re all working out of a club called Moloko—they reported her missing.”
Keller felt her stomach drop. She stopped pacing, opened the curtains, and looked outside for no reason. Several news satellite trucks were parked in the lot. “Let me guess: no one has seen her since the night with Matt Pine.”
“That’s right.”
“I suppose she could’ve taken off. Matt said she got cold feet, so maybe she’s hiding from whoever she was working with.”