Missing, Adam Nicholls [book recommendations website txt] 📗
- Author: Adam Nicholls
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Without another word, she took the door and headed back downstairs, where the music had picked up its tempo and some skinny redhead was sliding out of her panties on stage. Men were hollering and whistling like a pack of excited dogs.
Evie kept her head down and went for the exit, keeping a cautious eye over her shoulder. She almost screamed when she walked into the stripper.
“Easy there,” said a topless blonde, feeding a scrap of paper into her hand while glancing over her shoulder. She walked away without looking back.
Evie knew better than to open it in plain sight, and made for the exit and darted around to the side. Nervous and curious, she unfolded the note and read the message with its one clear instruction: Meet me out back at midnight.
Midnight was approaching, but not fast enough. Evie hugged herself in the cold alleyway, refusing to take her eyes off the filthy old man taking a piss behind the dumpster.
He zipped up and stumbled drunkenly toward her.
“Want some fuh-fun, gorgeous?” he asked as he swayed from side to side.
“I’m not here for that.” Evie took a step back, disgusted.
“You don’t want—” He burped. “—some of this?”
The club’s back door swung open and the stripper who’d left the message stepped out. It was a complete transformation to see her in clothes. Inside she’d looked like a whore who’d do anything for money. Now she looked like somebody’s mom. “Go home, Jeremy,” she said to the drunk.
He turned, oblivious to what was going on, then stumbled into the darkness while muttering incoherent words.
“Sorry about him,” the stripper said, stepping closer.
“Thanks for the rescue.” Evie held up the note. “You have some information?”
The stripper chewed on her gum. “You a cop?”
Evie believed this woman deserved the truth, at least. “Just an interested party.”
After a longer stare of assessment, the stripper took Evie by the arm and led her away from the club, lowering her voice. “That man you’ve been looking for? His name’s Marvin Wendell. He comes here a lot.”
She knows his name. At least I know she’s not lying to me. “You’ve danced for him?”
The stripper laughed. “My profession extends a little further than just dancing, if you catch my drift. Wendell is a client of mine. Into some freaky shit, but he always pays.”
“Have you been in his RV?”
“RV? Sweetheart, we catch a cab to a motel up the road. Romero’s, I think it’s called.”
Evie wasn’t at all surprised the man was into prostitution. “Are you sure it’s him?”
“Couldn’t be surer. Guy was missing a finger. Kind of reduces the pleasure, if you get what I’m saying.” The stripper winked. She was a friendly woman, kind of overkeen to please but generally big-hearted.
“I get you,” Evie said, avoiding her gaze. “You say he pays you. Is he wealthy?”
They passed the drunk they’d seen only moments ago, now sleeping it off on a nearby bench that was still wet from the recent showers. The street was otherwise empty.
“He pays me for the whole night because of the distance to the motel. It suits me—I don’t have much of a life outside this place anyway, and I’m saving to go back to college.”
Evie felt for the woman, but what could she do? “Romero’s. Got ya. Thanks for your help…?”
“Jennifer.”
“Jennifer. You take care.” Evie handed her the cab money Mason had provided, smiled, and walked toward the nearest bus stop to wait for her brother. She had a feeling he’d be more than a little interested in the new information.
Mason pulled up to the bus stop to find his sister shivering with cold and clearly tired. It was getting late, and she’d probably want to head home.
“Evie,” he called over and let her in the car. They parked to talk about the latest, and even took a cigarette from the emergency supply and shared it while catching up on the details.
“So, this Wendell guy,” Mason said, taking a long, smoky draw. “He uses this motel often?”
“All the time, apparently.”
“Why not use the RV?” Since Mason had discovered it at Rigby’s and the LAPD had shown up to retrieve it, it’d been collected by its owner. He could’ve kicked himself for not having it impounded sooner.
“You said it yourself,” Evie said, taking the cigarette from him and tapping the spent ash into the Mustang’s tray, “it has no real interior. Just a tin can, right?”
It was true. But however much Mason wanted to believe Marvin Wendell would be at the motel, he had his doubts. “You coming, or do you want me to drop you home?”
Evie cracked a window and tossed the butt outside. “You’re going now?”
“I don’t want to waste any more time.”
“But you’re exhausted, and it’s a couple of hours outside the city.”
“I’ll live.” Mason knew exactly where this was headed: the ever-persistent request that she get to drive his precious Mustang. He didn’t like it—never had—but it made sense on this occasion. “Just be gentle with her, all right?”
Evie climbed out and they swapped seats. Mason reclined in the passenger seat as Evie struggled to handle the unfamiliar power of the car. He wanted to get some shut-eye—he really did—but it was impossible to relax with Evie grinding the gears.
After an hour had passed, the car was being handled better, so Mason lay back, his eyes on the sky. Was he on his way to meet Wendell, or would it be another dead end? And what about Ryan Carter? He didn’t want to admit it, but the odds weren’t in the boy’s favor.
This could be the last night the boy ever lives, he thought as he watched the passing yellow blur of streetlights. He only hoped he was wrong.
The motel was a rundown mess of a place, fit for a horror movie.
Mason was first out the car, leaving Evie trailing behind as he rushed inside to talk with the clerk. The moment he entered, he was faced with a sweaty middle-aged man who looked as sleazy as he did greasy.
“Looing for a room?” the clerk asked without looking up.
“No, actually, I’m looking for a guest.” He placed his badge on the counter and pushed it onto the man’s smut magazine, forcing him to look at it. “Goes by the name Wendell.”
“Customer confidentiality. They have their right to privacy, and I’m loyal to that.” The clerk shoved the badge back over and returned to his “reading,” rude and uninterested.
“The man’s a killer.” Mason flipped up the counter and invited himself in. He was aware of Evie entering the building when the bell jingled. But even she knew better than to get involved in this conflict.
“Hey, you can’t come back here!” The man stood up, but Mason’s hand guided him back down by his throat. He slumped into his chair, his cheeks growing rosy red.
Mason perused the bookshelf until he found a row of binders and ledgers, each labeled in date order. He took the most recent out, slid it into his large palm, and scanned through for the name. Wendell wasn’t listed, but another name caught his attention: Brahm.
Mason wondered whether the killer was using the name as a cover, or if he was cruelly mocking them, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs all the way to a dead end.
“Put that down!” the clerk yelled without standing up.
“Not until I meet this guy.” Mason looked at the attached sign-in sheet, following the point of his finger across the columns of the spreadsheet. “He’s here now?”
“Depends,” the clerk said, rubbing his throat. “What’s it to you?”
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