The Second Girl(4)

“They been putting that shit in your arm, or have you?” I ask, and realize afterward that I’m talking to a little girl, not the junkies or crackheads I’m used to talking to.

“He has,” she says, with a firmness that suggests anger. Her lip quivers.

And I wonder if “he” is Shiny.

“Heroin?”

“Yes, and something else once, but it kept me up for almost two days so they didn’t anymore.”

“What else they got you using?” I ask, realizing how my mind is working now.

“Just weed. I want to go now.”

“I need to know first. The stuff they shot you up with, which made you stay up for two days, do you know where they keep that?”

“I don’t know. Why are you asking me this? Please, I want my mom now.”

I’m such an *. Who thinks like this?

“Where do they keep their stash?”

She looks at me, eyes wide, like she remembers when I said I didn’t come here for her.

“Is it someplace in the room there?”

“I don’t know,” she says, fear in her voice now. “Please take me home.” She breaks down and sobs.

I’m kicked back to reality. Her f*cking reality.

“Are you hurt anywhere? I mean, can you move?”

“I can move.”

I maneuver myself calmly toward her and offer my hand.

She accepts.

“Let’s get outta here,” I say.

I help her up, but her knees buckle after she stands.

“Button up the jacket. I’ll have to carry you.”

She does.

I grab around her with my left arm, over my jacket where it falls below her rear. I lift her, and it’s like lifting nothing at all. She wraps her frail arms around my neck. I slip the crowbar into my backpack with my free hand on the way out and shoulder the backpack. She doesn’t say a word.

I pull the living room curtain and peek out before I exit. It looks clear, so I kick away the shoe that props the door. Once outside, I try to pull it shut the best I can. With my luck, some crackhead burglar’s going to roll up on the spot and find the stash, along with who knows what else. Damn, I can’t even think about it. Here I am, cradling this little girl, who’s been through hell, and this is what I think about.

I got just enough of my own to get me through tonight at least, but I don’t like the prospect of what tomorrow might bring if I don’t get the job finished today. I got a few necessities to help me through in the event of a total crash—Valium, Klonopin, Oxy, a good amount of weed, and a lot of liquor. But I like my life on the ups, not the downs.

I walk quickly to my car and around to the rear passenger’s side. I set my backpack on the sidewalk and push the button on the key fob, unlocking the door. I gently put her in, sit her on the seat. I buckle the seat belt for her.

“This is a funny-looking car for a policeman,” she says.

“It’s a specialized car, for cops who don’t want to be made as cops,” I return with a smile.

I close the door and walk around to the driver’s side, open the door and set the backpack on the front seat, peel off my latex gloves, and shove them in my pants pocket. I start the car.

Before I pull out I look at her through the rearview mirror and I realize I can’t go to the cops. It doesn’t matter that I’m a former cop turned PI and still have a couple of friends I can trust. And seriously, there’s only two.

Yeah, I can make up a good story. I’m not worried about that. Hell, I rescued a little girl. Exigent circumstances. Those words alone allowed me to kick in plenty of doors back in the day. But the fact is, if I take her somewhere like the Third District, which is the closest station, I’ll be there most of the day answering questions and making up stories. I don’t have the time for that shit.

And I can’t just take her home. Cops would still get involved, and Fairfax County PD would be slow-cooking my ass for even more hours than DC. Whatever choice I make, cops are going to get involved. I just have to do it in a way that minimizes my exposure and allows me to get back out here and do what I gotta do before they move on it first.

Then it comes to me.

Costello.

I’ll take her to Costello’s office downtown. She’ll know how to handle it. She retains me as an investigator for some of her bigger defense cases. All this other shit I do, well, that’s just sustaining a lifestyle I couldn’t afford otherwise.

I look at my wristwatch. If I hurry, I might have enough time after I drop off the kid to come back and make a quick run through before those Salvadoran mopes return. I’ll just have to give Costello the condensed version of a story I haven’t thought of yet.





Four



I take Georgia Avenue south until it turns into 7th. Howard Hospital is behind me. I think about turning around to take her there. I look at the rearview again, notice her wrapped in my suit jacket, unexpressive and gazing out the window.

My mind’s been racing, but like I said, taking her to Costello’s might buy me the time I need to finish up what I spent days planning so I stay the course.

“How old are you, Amanda?”

I see her break away from the window as if something jarred her.

“Sixteen.”

“You look a little young for sixteen. When’s your birthday?”