"When was this?"
"Last week. Friday maybe. Thursday? No, I remember, it was Friday because we had a tuna casserole and we talked about Catholics and that fish thing they used to have."
"Have you seen him since then?"
"Well, yeah, I mean, that's why I talked to Grace, isn't it, "cause Bo - because my friend asked me to. He came here this afternoon. Well, really this morning, but I wasn't here, so he came back. He said he found Dio, and he's really sick - Dio is, I mean - and a couple of Dio's friends are really worried about him."
"Sick how? OD?" If so, he'd be long dead.
"I don't think so. Bo - my friend said he was coughing real bad, for the last week or so."
"Why didn't his friends take him to the emergency room? Or the free clinic?"
"Well, that part I didn't really understand. There's something about this guy Dio lives with, him and a bunch of other kids, all of them guys, I think. Anyway, there's this old guy who kind of heads up the place they're living in. It's a squat in a warehouse the other side of Market, down where the docks are? Anyway he - the old guy - doesn't like outsiders, like doctors."
I'll bet he doesn't, Kate thought bleakly. "I'd like to talk to your friend about this."
"He said no, he doesn't want nothing to do with it. He's just worried about Dio and thinks somebody should take him out of there before he dies or something. He'd probably freak if he knew I was talking to a cop about it. He said he doesn't want the old guy to know, 'cause he makes my friend nervous. Oh, there's nothing wrong with him. I mean, he takes care of the kids and doesn't feel them up or anything, but he's just… weird. That's what Bo says, anyway. Bo's my friend."
Secondhand and from a limited vocabulary like Kitty's, "weird" could mean anything from a drooling madman to an Oxbridgian with a plummy accent and boutonniere.
"Okay, I'll go see him. And I won't tell how I knew he was there. What's the address?"
Kitty had to stand up to get her hand into the pockets of her skintight jeans. She pulled out a grubby scrap of paper folded multiple times into a wad. Kate unfolded it, saw that the address was clear enough, and put it into her own pocket.
"Thanks, Kitty. I'll do what I can. It was good of you to take the chance, talking to me."
"Yeah, well. If us kids on the street don't look after each other, who will?"
The rain was taking a break when Kate left the center, and the wind had dropped below gale force, so she decided to go by the address on the scrap of paper Kitty had given her. She was almost surprised to find, when she got there, that it actually existed. It proved to be a deserted three-story warehouse with plywood sheets nailed up across all the ground-floor windows, in an area slated for redevelopment. Kate went past it slowly, continued on a couple of blocks, and then doubled back, blessing the Kawasaki's efficient muffler system. Pushing the big machine into a recessed entranceway that stank of urine but was at the moment unoccupied, she climbed out of the bright orange jumpsuit, opened the storage box, took out a long flashlight and shoved in the wet jumpsuit, closed and locked the top, and clamped her helmet onto the bike with the rigid lock. She thrust the flashlight into the deep front pocket of her leather jacket and cautiously approached the building.
The front was, predictably, padlocked. She found the entrance currently in use down an alleyway on the side of the building, covered by a sheet of corrugated metal that screeched loudly when she pulled it aside. Over the noise of the wind and the occasional heavy drops, she could not tell if there was any movement inside the building. Trying to reassure herself that this really wasn't so stupid, that even though she felt like an empty-headed female on a late-night movie investigating attic noises with a candle in her hand, she actually was an armed cop (admittedly, with no official reason for being here, far less a search warrant), she stepped through the gap.
She had fully intended to make her presence known in a straightforward manner. After all, she hardly looked like a police officer, and she only wanted a chance to talk with the boy Dio. She even had her mouth open to call a placatory greeting when it began, the cold ripple of the skin up along the back of her hand, over her wrists, and up her forearms to her shoulders and the nape of her neck, the creepy-crawlies that told her something really bad was about to go down. She hadn't expected this, had only planned on talking with some unwashed boys in a squat, had arranged no backup, but the moment it started, she didn't stop to think, only reacted.
Gun up in both hands and ready, back against the wall, every hair alert, and… nothing. Nothing.
There were people in the building, though, she would swear to it, could feel them over her head, silently waiting for - what?
She, too, waited in the darkness, long minutes straining to hear, see, anything, tried to make herself open her mouth and call a friendly "Hello, anyone there?" but the ghostly touch along the tops of her arms did not go away. Finally, moving as stealthily as her heavy boots would allow, she sidled back through the gap, trotted down the alley (keeping a wary eye overhead) for a quick glance at the rear of the building, and then made her way back up the alleyway and through the shadows to the cycle, where she unlocked the storage compartment again and took out her mobile radio. She turned the volume right down and spoke in a mutter.
The marked unit arrived within three minutes, drifting to a stop with its headlights out. The dome light did not go on when the two men opened their doors with gentle clicks, and neither of them slammed his door. Kate was relieved; they knew their business. She cleared her throat quietly and walked over to them.
"Kate Maninelli, Homicide," she identified herself. "What do you know about that three-story building just this side of the garage?"
"It's been a squat for a couple of months now. No problems," said the older one. "We reported it, but the attitude this time of year is, if it stays quiet, let it go. There aren't enough beds for them, in the shelters, anyway," he added defensively.
"I know. But it's been quiet? No sign of Johns, not a crack house, shooting gallery, anything like that?"
"No customers of any kind. Why?"
"I don't have a warrant. I'm just looking for a boy, was told he was in there sick. I went in, but I… I don't like the way it feels inside. Wanted some backup." The younger man looked at her sideways, but the older one just nodded.
"I know what you mean. I'll go in with you," he offered. His voice sounded familiar. Kate looked more closely.
"Tom Rawlins, isn't it? Rawlings?" He seemed pleased to be recognized. "Thanks, but I think I'd better go in alone, I don't want to scare them off. Just watch my back? And maybe your partner here —"
"Ash Jordan," he said, introducing himself.
"Maybe Ash can watch around in back? There's a fire escape."
"Fine."
"What's he done?"
"As far as I know, he's only a status offender - assuming that I have his age right. I'm trying to track him down as a favor to a friend."
The men both accepted this, understanding the language of favors and friends and the problems of runaways.
"He calls himself Dio, light-skinned Hispanic, five seven, skinny, looks about fourteen."