The Second Girl(39)

The first one’s a freshman. Edgar Rawlin. He doesn’t fit the profile. Too clean-cut, and when I first talked to Amanda she said Edgar took her to the Salvadorans’ house in DC. This guy’s too young to drive, but that doesn’t mean he won’t drive. Still, he doesn’t fit the bill.

The second one is Edgar Soto, a junior. He’s a good-looking kid, the kinda face that might charm some of the younger girls. He’s got something he’s trying to grow on his chin to make him look tougher.

I bookmark both Edgar pages with torn paper.

I look at the photos of Miriam, the ones given to me by the parents.

Such a pretty girl. Seems like she could do a lot better than a little punk like Edgar, if one of these is the Edgar I want.

Damn, makes me glad I’m not a father. If I had a daughter, she’d be in a boarding school for girls. One of those schools with tall gates all around at least thirty miles from the closest town.





Thirty-three



I’ll be meeting with Amanda at four o’clock. I have some time so I decide to head up to 16th and Park, sit on it for a bit and see who’s out playing.

I find a nice parking spot on the west side of 16th, about a quarter of a block up. I don’t see any of the regulars. Maybe it’s just the wrong time of day, or Davidson and his boys, and maybe Luna, have been hitting them hard. Might even be because Shiny and his crew were taken out of the picture and they were the only ones running the corner. If any of these are the case, then it’ll stay clear for a while, but not for long. Once things ease up, someone else will take control and be out there slingin’. Might just be the opportunity Cordell Holm was waiting for, unless he was already in control. Time will tell. I’ll stick around for a couple hours, see if anything transpires.

I could walk around the neighborhood, show Miriam’s photo. There’s a few Latino-owned markets and restaurants all along Mount Pleasant Street; a short walk west of here there’s a community of people who’ve lived in this neighborhood for a long time. Showing her photo around would be an appropriate next step. But I don’t want to do that until I’ve exhausted everything else, especially until after I talk to Amanda and Edgar, if I can find him.

It’s doubtful, but still possible, that if Miriam was abducted by the same crew that abducted Amanda, showing her photo around might get back to the wrong people, especially with all the crackheads, drunks, and thugs roaming this area. I honestly don’t believe those boys on Kenyon were acting alone. That house was more of a holding cell, the first stage in the process.

If at one time Miriam was being held at that house, then she’s either been taken outta state to someplace like New York, forced into prostitution somewhere around here, or, Lord forbid, she’s dead. If it ever comes down to me having to hit the street, I have some sources I’d want to get with first.

After a couple of hours of sitting, I’m satisfied that it’s a dead end for now.

I drive south toward the 14th Street Bridge, where I’ll catch I-95 and make my way to Amanda’s home.





Thirty-four



Amanda Meyer’s home is in one of the newer communities of Burke. The homes are larger, with more siding, less brick, and even less land. Long stretches of wooded areas with creeks and aqueducts separate most of the communities around here; the Meyers’ neighborhood is on one side of such a wooded area, and the Gregory family is on the other. They’re close enough to be part of a larger community, but still far enough that school might be the only place they’d run into each other.

Mrs. Meyer answers the door.

She’s an attractive lady, with a welcoming smile.

After I introduce myself, she greets me with an even more welcoming, but brief, hug. When I enter into the foyer, I am greeted again, but this time by Mr. Meyer and an unexpected, very long and uncomfortable hug.

“Okay, okay, now,” I say after a couple seconds, and I try to tactfully break free after giving him a couple of pats on the back.

He releases me. “So good to finally meet you.” He beams.

I certainly didn’t expect this; with the exception of maybe Costello, but only on certain and very special occasions, I’m not the huggy-bear type.

I’m invited into the den and offered a large leather recliner to sit in, as if Mr. Meyer would be honored if I took his spot. I thank him, but sit on a firmer armchair with green leaf patterns. I set my briefcase on the floor beside me.

“Amanda is in her room,” says Mrs. Meyer. “I’ll go get her.”

Mr. Meyer sits in the leather chair.

“Would you like coffee or anything?” he asks.

“I’m good, thank you.”

“I can’t thank you enough.”

“You have already,” I say. “How is your daughter doing?”

“She’s seeing a psychiatrist. It’s terribly hard on her, but she’ll pull through.”

“What little time I spent with her, I sensed she’s pretty tough.”

“Yes, she is,” he says, and I see his eyes begin to tear. “Sorry.” He wipes the tears away with the back of his large hand.

“So I imagine the FBI has been here a few times to interview her?”

“Yes, three times already. The first time with an agent who specializes in forensic interviewing of children.”