“I sing some, but dancing’s my thing.”
I nodded, noticing her trim legs and hips.
“My problem is that my parents are, well, old-fashioned. They don’t approve of what I’m doing. I’ve talked to them on the phone and written them, and told them I like what I’m doing. But they won’t leave me alone!”
She took a tissue from her Gucci bag and dabbed beneath the rim of her dark glasses. “This morning they called from a motel. They want to see me.”
“So see them,” I said. “They are your parents.”
“You don’t understand — they’ve threatened to have me kidnapped.”
“How old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
“You’re of legal age.”
“I know, but they think I’m a little girl!”
“But they let you leave home, didn’t they?”
She shook her head. “I ran away. After a few weeks I called them so they wouldn’t worry. They’ve been after me ever since.”
Now I shook my head. “What do you want me to do?”
“Tell them once and for all that I’m not coming home, that I’m okay. Tell them to leave me alone.”
“You think that’ll do any good?”
“Yes. You can let them know that after they calm down and accept me the way I am, I’ll see them when and where I choose.”
I glanced at my half-painted wall, then at her, and said, “I don’t like getting involved in family business.”
“They won’t shoot you or anything.”
That was debatable. People with domestic problems are like house pets — they still have sharp teeth. “It’s not that.”
“Then what?”
“Look, moms and dads love their kids, one way or another. You owe it to them to face them.”
“I can’t! They’ll make me go home. I’d rather die!”
And to show that she meant business, she popped open Mr. Gucci’s wide mouth and handed me five one-hundred-dollar bills.
“Why me?” I asked.
“People say you’re reliable and honest.”
“And you believe them?”
She smiled. “You look OK.”
I gave her back three bills, explaining I sell my services for two hundred per diem. She gave me her folks’ address. I asked her what to say.
“That I’m doing fine, to leave me alone, that I’ll contact them when I’m ready.”
I followed her down the walk, asked for a number so I could tell her what happened.
“That’s not necessary,” she said. “Just tell them.”
She drove off in one of those cute little Mazda RX-7s, bright red, with a personalized tag — CANDI.
I checked the car parked in front of 171 — a dusty, three-year-old Ford with a Tennessee tag. Then I went to the door, rapped a couple of times, and stood back a pace, just in case.
A woman of about forty opened the door. Brown hair showing gray. Lines on her otherwise pretty face. A big fellow, balding, wearing a white shirt and no tie stepped up behind her. His face was weather-beaten, his eyes squinting down at me.
“Hello,” she said, her voice small and twangy.
“My name’s Jack Bleekman,” I said, showing them my I.D. “I’m a private investigator. Your daughter, Kim—”
She grabbed my arm. “You’ve seen her?”
“Well, yes. That’s why I’m here.”
The big guy moved in front of her but didn’t touch me. “I’m Ovid Johnson, mister,” he said. “This is my wife, Nancy. What’s this about Kimberly?”
Another jet swooped over as I opened my mouth. He motioned me in and shut the door and leaned against it. I glanced around the room. It looked lived in. The made-up bed was rumpled but the TV wasn’t on. A battered suitcase and some clothes on hangers were in the area by the lavatory. On the dresser were a pair of black socks and a framed photo.
“Where did you see Kimberly?” Mrs. Johnson asked.
“She came by my office an hour ago.”
“Where is she now?” the father asked.
“I don’t know.”
For a man of any size he moved fast. The next thing I knew I was across the bed and he had me for the three-count. “Whoa!” I said. “I’ll tell you what I know.”
“That you will, buddy,” he said, pinning me with his eyes. “Nan, get my gun.”
She opened a dresser drawer and fished out a long barrel .44 magnum. He snatched it and pressed it against my throat and eased off of me. “Now talk, real slow!”
The .25 Beretta strapped to my ankle seemed ten miles away. “Take it easy and let me up and I will,” I said.
He cocked the .44. “You will now!”
God is on the side of the big battalions. Under circumstances such as these, so was I. “Like I told you — she came to my office. Hired me to tell you she was fine.”
“What else?”
“That you should leave her alone.”
He blinked, uncocked the hammer, and looked like he was going to slap the barrel across my nose. But then Mama touched his arm and said, “Let the man go, Ovid. I want to hear everything about Kimberly.”
Ovid grunted and shifted his weight so I could sit up. “Don’t forget I’ve still got this,” he said, waving the magnum.
“How could I?”
“And no smart big-city talk!”
Mama said, “Kimberly doesn’t want to see us?”
“That’s what she told me.”
A tear ran down her cheek. “Then why’d she send us this?”
She showed me a postcard, one of those plain ones with no picture. The address and message were in soft pencil, looping letters like a teenager would write. It said, “Help me.” There was an Atlanta phone number. The postmark was three days ago.
“We called and at first nobody answered. Then a man did and he said he didn’t know anyone named Kimberly and hung up. Since then the phone’s been disconnected.”
“You that guy who answered?” Dad asked.
“Not me. Only time I saw her was an hour ago, at my office.”
“Did she say how she is, what she’s doing?” Mom asked.
“She said she’s a dancer and everything was all right.”
“She studied dancing since she was four. Won a county-wide contest last year. But I just know something’s bad wrong!”
Mr. Johnson laid the pistol on the dresser, within easy reach, put one fence-post arm around his sobbing wife, and said, “There, there, Mother. We’ll find her.”
I glanced beyond the .44 to the photo. A pretty young girl with a fresh smile and shoulder-length brown hair. Wore a sweater with a string of pearls. “Is that Kimberly?” I asked.
Dad nodded. “Was taken last year when she was graduated from the county high school.”
“How tall is she?”
Mom said, “Five-five, why?”
The girl who hired me had different colored hair and wore dark glasses, yet she resembled the girl in the photo, and both were about the same size. But under oath I couldn’t swear she was Kimberly.
Dad reached for the .44, saying, “You better answer my wife’s question.”
It wasn’t the photo that really bothered me; it was the postcard. My Kimberly hadn’t mentioned it. And Mom and Dad weren’t mean. They were upset, which was normal. And there was something else that didn’t add up, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
I said, “Did you threaten to kidnap her?”
Mom’s hands flew to her lips. Dad said, “Where we come from, mister, folks don’t snatch their own kids!”
“Let me look around,” I said.
“You’ll help us?” Mom asked.
“I’ll do what I can, but no promises. Atlanta’s a big town.”
“How much you charge?” Dad asked.
“I get two hundred a day plus expenses, usually.”
“Not that we’re poor, but we don’t have that kind of money.”
Mom pulled off her wedding band and said, “I don’t care how much it costs — I want my daughter! Take this.”