He made small talk and asked around, but never did he find Josie Banks. Sometimes he would swear that he’d seen her face, but it always turned out to be some other girl with dark eyes and a tortured past. Poverty and hard luck had no predilection for a certain type of person. Teenagers, kids, even whole families of every race and color found themselves in its hopeless grip. It was easy enough to imagine himself in their position had he never found the employment of Dean Moloney.
It was by chance that Mort seated himself on the very bench that Josie often visited. He was bent over, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, when he felt someone sit beside him.
“You’re new here.”
Mort nodded, not looking up.
“I’m Gavin, your concierge for the evening. Whatcha looking for?”
“A girl.”
“Well, today’s your lucky day, handsome.”
Mort sighed and sat back before sliding his eyes over to his new friend. She looked tired and weathered, but something in her eyes was content.
“A specific girl.”
“Oh, well, I get it. I’m not your type. No worries, you’re not mine either.”
“A girl named Josie,” Mort said through gritted teeth.
“Josie? Why didn’t you just say that? Haven’t seen her in a couple weeks, but you’re definitely in the right place.”
Gavin pointed to the elaborate JayBee signature on the bench between them. Mort’s spine straightened severely and he tried to keep the look of triumph from his face.
“Cool. That’s cool.”
“What you want with her?” Gavin asked, suddenly wary.
“I owe her some money. You know where I can find her?”
“Uh, I might. But I don’t know you, dude. What if she don’t want to be found?”
Instantly, Mort’s expression morphed from innocent to sinister. He pulled his switchblade and held it against Gavin’s throat.
“You’ll tell me or you’ll fucking die.”
Gavin’s mind ran wild as she felt death grab hold. This man would end her, she knew that. If she didn’t tell him what he wanted to know, her life would end here on this bench. She eyed one of Josie’s drawings, a simple self-portrait. There was no decision to make.
“Then I guess I’m meeting my maker tonight,” she answered in a firm voice.
There was no scream as the blade penetrated her flesh. She didn’t beg for her life. There was no change of heart. Gavin closed her eyes and slipped away silently beneath the lush green canopy.
An hour later, Mort returned to his apartment, where he washed the blood and disappointment from his hands. When he was clean again, he lay in bed and pondered what his next move would be. Just as he began to doze off, his phone buzzed.
“Mort,” he answered.
“Any word on the girl?” the sinister voice asked.
Mort glanced at the phone, as if the man could come through and grab him by the throat if his answer was not satisfactory.
“All I’ve got is a lead on her case worker.”
“Be aggressive. Those fuckers in New York really dropped the ball on this,” Moloney sneered.
“I’ve got this.”
“I have a former employee looking for her as well. If he finds her first, you are out of luck, my friend.”
The line disconnected, and Mort slumped against his pillow. The word “friend” resonated through the air, dripping with disdain and anything but camaraderie. He’d dedicated so much time to this job, and just like that, Moloney would send someone else to finish it. Mort recognized this for what it was, a motivational threat. He needed this money, his whole future depended on it.
Throwing his phone onto the table, he vowed to step up his game. Mort hacked into the internal archives of the Child Services office. Within minutes he was logged in as a registered user and began his search for Josie Banks.
He pulled up her file and noted the assigned case worker was Monica Templeton and smiled satisfactorily. He followed Josie’s path through the failing child protective system, noting the methodical check-ins every twelve weeks.
First she was placed in a girls’ home in north San Diego County. After six months, she was put into a foster home with Mr. and Mrs. Spangler. The couple lived in a decent uptown neighborhood and seemed an ideal family on paper.
Mort scrolled through the folder, finding it pathetic that almost four years of this girl’s childhood could be so easily accounted for and condensed into this small file. As he read the notes detailing the horrific abuse she suffered, it hit him like a suffocating blow.
“Mr. and Mrs. Spangler were charged with criminal negligence and physical abuse while serving as Josie Banks’s guardians. They were both convicted and served time separately. Denise, released early in March 2010, and her husband, Stephen, released in November 2010, remain residents of San Diego County. See notes below for parole information,” Mort read, sickened by the words.
The details of the case stated that none of the abuse had been discovered until Josie had turned eighteen and was no longer a ward of the state.
He felt a wave of nausea shoot through his body. In the business he was in, Mort had seen many things. He’d experienced enough blood and carnage to last him several lifetimes. This was something entirely different. He too had suffered abuse at the hands of adults he’d trusted, an unforgivable act in his book. These people were monsters.
While he felt sorry for Josie and all that she’d endured, he had a job to do and it would be best if he just viewed her as a paycheck. He knew he needed to act quickly, otherwise he might be thwarted by Moloney’s other man. He quickly logged out of the program and shut down his computer.
11. Umbra
A shadow that blocks out illumination.
It was raining in Southern California and no one knew how to behave. Pedestrians scurried down the streets, taking cover under the eaves of various restaurants and secondhand bookstores. The strangers huddled so tightly together that personal space and physical boundaries were breached. The falling rain assembled into puddles along street curbs and on the dry fronds of palm trees.
Monica huffed at the inconvenience as she hurried down the sidewalk. The coffee shop sign lured her in, the neon glow immediately reminding her body of its requirement of caffeine. She weaved in and out of the crowds, sometimes darting through the downpour to reach her destination. The man before her, the one dressed in appropriate rain gear and designer shoes, swung the door too hard, knocking her over. Monica yelped and grabbed his sleeve to keep from falling, only to send them both careening to the ground.
“Shit!” Monica exclaimed, feeling the water seep through the seat of her pencil skirt.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, jumping up quickly, offering his hand and an apologetic smile.
She took it and let him pull her in beneath the shelter of his jacket. Once inside, Monica tried to assess the damage. She knew her ass was wet and maybe bruised, her hair was a mess, and she’d broken a nail. That shit always happens just when you get them all to the same length, she thought.
“Are you okay?” the man asked, concern lacing his voice.
His face was a bit round and childlike while still remaining handsome. His curly brown hair was cropped short, while his devious smile hinted that there was more beneath the surface. His oxford shirt hugged his chest, indicating a muscled body beneath such common clothes. Soon, for no reason at all, Monica found herself smiling back.
“I’m fine, really.”
“Well, if you’re sure. Hey, let me buy you a coffee. Pick your poison,” he said, gesturing to the menu.