Fatal Connections

Chapter 23

Adams swung a foot up on one knee with the grace of a dancer. A move so sinuous I thought he might then wrap his leg behind his neck.

"That's my story," he said. "What's yours?"

"Looking for a guy who skipped bail—Troy Fairchild. Ever heard of him?"

Adams shook his head. "Must be small time. I'm assuming he's not involved in anything I'd know about."

Delgado had given me a photo of Troy. It was in my file which, to the best of my knowledge, was still in my car.

"Could you do me a favor?" I asked. "When I get out of here, can I keep in touch with you? And if you could take a look at Troy's mug shot to see if you recognize him, I'd appreciate it."

Mr. Yoga Stretch gave me a decisive nod. "Sure." He put both feet on the floor and stood up, moving like he was made of elastic. As he rose, he retrieved a card holder from his pants pocket. And plucking a business card from his stash, he handed it to me. Printed on it in simple black type was his name and a phone number, nothing more. "Call me anytime."

After being cleared to leave the hospital, I called a taxi to take me back to my car. During the ride, I thought about Nick. But my head still throbbed, and the thought of describing where I'd been, what had happened to me, and why was overwhelming. Of course, I still needed to charge my phone. I could have asked the taxi driver to charge my phone, but it didn't seem right to deal with all this in the back of a stranger's car. Especially since I still didn't know how Nick's interview with the homicide detectives had gone.

I kept thinking about my meeting with the flexible Mr. Adams. Although he had told me "his story," he hadn't told me much. If he were a private investigator, that would explain his interest in me. Because his business card revealed only his name and phone number, he could easily run off cards like that and be whatever he wanted to be. Including a private eye. Was his name really Parker Adams? My head was still pounding, and I tried to quiet my mind as we made our way to my car.

To say I was somewhat relieved to find my Fiesta still parked where I left it with no visible signs of damage is a major understatement. I paid the driver, making sure to add a good tip, because he looked a little nervous as we drove through a neighborhood that could kindly be described as plain (not so kindly as "industrial wasteland"). Before he left, I asked the driver to wait until I started my car. From his response, you'd have thought I had asked him to clean a cesspool. I offered him an extra twenty.

"Fifty bucks," he said.

"Never mind."

As I got out, he gave me a look of combined disbelief and disgust at my stingy behavior before driving off. Have a nice day, I thought. And fuck you.

As it had when I left it, my car looked isolated and vulnerable with few others nearby. I speed-walked across the decaying lot, senses on high alert, eyes searching for any sign of trouble.

I got into my car and immediately checked the doors. Locked. Were the windows shut tight? They were. The margin of safety was too thin, so I hurried to get out of there. Adams had told me just enough to clue me in that this place was not cool, but not nearly enough to understand exactly how uncool. I might be a trained killer, but why take chances?

My relief as I drove away was palpable. I don't mind telling you that I took one or two good, deep breaths to steady myself. However, that feeling of relief evaporated instantly when I remembered I still needed to find Troy Fairchild, the reason I'd gone to that shithole to begin with. I needed to ferret out some new leads, because even if Adams was willing to help me, I couldn't rely entirely on his good graces.

I also had to charge my phone. As soon as freaking possible. So I pulled over to the curb in front of a warehouse big enough to house several football fields, extracted the phone from my shoulder bag, and connected it to the charger on the dash. Thus reassured that I could connect with the rest of the world, I continued out of the crap neighborhood.

Once I found my way into a halfway decent area (at least on the surface), I pulled up to the curb and parked beside a small playground. By this time, my phone was charged enough to work, so I called Nick. While waiting for him to answer, I watched the prekindergarten-age kids clamber over jungle gyms, slides, and swings, all specially designed to protect them from harm. I wondered how many of the adults on the playground were pedophiles.

Nick's phone rang three times, then went to voice mail. Damn. In the hope that it just wasn't a good time for Nick to take a phone call, I sent him a text: RU OK?

As I waited for a reply, I watched the children play. I thought about turning the radio on, but opted instead for their laughter and squeals of delight. Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. Nothing. Mentally shouting down all the dire speculations about Nick being arrested, I fired up the car, switched on the radio, and drove away.