Читать книгу The Hunt - Andrew Welsh-Huggins - Страница 22

13

I HAD A FEW HOURS BEFORE OUR MEETING and decided to head back to the hospital. It was the best visit so far because my dad was asleep for most of it. My mom barely acknowledged me, and Shelley did all the talking. It was with a sense of guilty relief that I made my excuses to leave for lunch with the congresswoman. The temperature had risen back into the upper forties, and I decided to wait outside the restaurant. Bardwell arrived six minutes late. She shook my hand firmly and thanked me for meeting her. She was as attractive as her bio and picture suggested. The man she was with was not nearly as good-looking.

“John Blanchett,” she said, making introductions. “John runs my Columbus office. He’s putting together an event we’re doing tomorrow night. Something I was hoping you could come to. A vigil for the victims. I thought it might be useful if he joined us today, maybe pick your brain.” She was peppy, with a take-charge attitude that went well with her Miss Ohio good looks. A person I was guessing was not used to taking no for an answer.

“Nice to meet you,” I said to Blanchett, chastising myself for the slight annoyance I felt at his presence. But in my defense, Bardwell was very pretty.

“You as well,” Blanchett said, his handshake strong and professional. “Do you still go by Woody?”

“Not for a long time. Andy’s fine.”

“And call me John. It’s good of you to be here.”

Indeed, I thought, casting a glance at the back of the congresswoman’s slim figure as we went inside. The maître d’ paid appropriate homage to a politician who might be running for the Senate, and we were seated quickly in the closest purple booth. Blanchett beamed. Bardwell unleashed a strategically humble-yet-grateful smile. I tried not to look like a security guard.

“Thanks again for meeting with us,” Bardwell said after waters and menus were delivered.

“You’re welcome. I’m still not sure how I can help.”

“Perhaps you could tell us a little more about your investigation.”

“So far there’s not much to report.” As I spoke, Blanchett pulled a small, black leather notebook from the left breast pocket of his coat, opened it, and looked at me inquiringly. I nodded, and as he took notes I gave them the basics about Jessica, Mount Alexandria, Jessica’s record, and her disappearance from the court intervention program. I mentioned my canvassing of East Main and the Rest EZ and the parole/probation officer.

When I finished, Bardwell said, “But still no idea where Jessica could be? Or do you think—”

I waited a moment before replying. “Do I think she’s dead? I have no idea. I hope not. For Bill’s sake, if nothing else. And her son.” Bardwell looked at me quizzically, and I explained about Robbie.

“How sad,” she said. “But what a noble gesture by her brother.”

“Yes,” I said, recalling Theresa’s immediate suspicion of Bill and what he might have done to his sister. “The thing is, Jessica’s been gone a while. That doesn’t bode well. Best case, she’s out of town or has a really good hiding place. Worst case, we know. But there’s another worst case, which is she died because she’s a heroin addict or she froze to death in an alley or she killed herself and no one’s found the dark corner of Columbus where her body is yet.”

“It’s so awful,” Bardwell said.

“The pimp, Bronte Patterson,” Blanchett said after a moment, looking up from his notebook. “I don’t mean to make light—”

“You wouldn’t be the first.” I related the brontosaurus quip. “But if you see his picture. Or read his record. It’s another story.”

“Sounds like a monster,” Blanchett said, shaking his head. He was thick-waisted, in contrast to his celery-stalk-thin boss, and saddled with a weak chin and a receding hairline. But he also had the personable manner of a skilled concierge and a shy smile that bordered on engaging.

“The woman who’s helping you,” Bardwell said. “Theresa? You said she’s a survivor of trafficking herself?”

“That’s right.”

She and Blanchett traded glances. He said, “Any chance she’d be interested in participating in the vigil? As someone who could speak to the dangers out there? Someone who’s experienced them firsthand?”

“I can ask.” I recalled Roy’s concerns. Thought of Theresa’s confrontational comment to Mr. Patel. How about when they undress? “But no promises. She didn’t sign up for that kind of thing.”

“Understood,” Blanchett said, nodding. “Only if she’s comfortable with it.”

“Is there anything specific I could tell her? About the event?”

“I’ll let John give you the nitty-gritty, since he’s organizing it,” Bardwell said. She smiled at him warmly. “But essentially it’s a chance to remember the women who died, as a way of keeping a focus on the investigation with Christmas coming. We’re holding it at Third Baptist, the church Lisa Washington grew up in. She was the . . .” She stopped and looked at Blanchett.

“The fourth victim,” he said. “Found in the Scioto, near Greenlawn.”

Bardwell nodded sadly. “I’ll also be announcing new initiatives dealing with these personal ad sites. They’re open markets for prostitution disguised as online dating. The fear is that many of the girls are underage, though it’s hard to prove it. Reardoor.com is one of the worst offenders.”