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  “Drink some of your coffee and let’s do a meeting, right here, right now.”

  “You listening, man? I don’t want to do no goddamn meetin’. Don’t want to say no goddamn Serenity Prayer. I want a fuckin’ drink and keep ’em comin’. Got it?”

  “Please,” I said. “I need you. I can’t do this without you.”

  “You don’t need me, man. You’re doin’ just fine. Just fine.”

  “Because of you,” I said.

  “No,” he said. “Not because of me. Because of you. You’re doin’ it. Not me.”

  “I couldn’t’ve done it without you,” I said. “Can’t do it without you. I mean it.”

  “You don’t mean it.”

  “I do. Don’t believe me? Fine. You drink, I drink. You wanna drink? Fuck it, let’s drink. Whatta we havin? Susan, give us two bourbons. Make ’em doubles.”

  She shook her head. “I won’t. I can’t.”

  “What kind of bar is this?” I said. “Margaret, come join us. Bring a bottle.”

  “I would, but I’ve got to stay behind the bar,” she said. “Sorry.”

  “Fine, we’ll move to the bar,” I said. “Come on.”

  As I started to stand, Lonnie grabbed my arm and pulled me back down.

  He didn’t say anything, just held my arm with one hand and began drinking his coffee with the other.

  Later, after Lonnie had gone back to work and I was still waiting for Remy Boss to drop by, Susan walked over to me.

  “You weren’t bluffing, were you?” she said. “You would have drank with Lonnie, wouldn’t you?”

  “I wasn’t bluffing,” I said.

  “I didn’t think so.”

  “That mean our snow date is canceled?” I asked.

  She frowned. “’Fraid so.”

  I had almost given up on Remy by the time he finally showed up.

  “Only got a minute,” he said. “Can’t stay.”

  He didn’t even sit down.

  “What’s up?” he added when I didn’t say anything.

  “We were wondering if the victims here could be Daryl Lee’s and if there were any black victims in the other places where he lived.”

  “We?”

  “Our missing and murdered children group,” I said.

  “The investigation is just beginning,” he said. “It’ll be a while before we know where all he lived and if he even had any other victims. It won’t be quick.”

  “I know, I just—”

  “Look, I’ve tried to be patient with you, but . . . you gotta leave me alone and let me do my job. As a courtesy I’ll come and talk to your little group after the investigation is complete, let y’all know anything I can.”

  His entire attitude had changed. It wasn’t that he had been much more than indifferent or slightly patient before, but now he was actually hostile.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I won’t bother you again.”

  “Lot of people blame you for what happened to Frank Morgan. I’m not one of them. Frank is the professional. You’re the . . . whatever you are. Young person. He should have never gone in there, should’ve never taken you. Whatever happened after that is on him.”

  I nodded, and thought about it, remembering how I had pressed Frank to go when he did—and to take me with him. Maybe I was to blame.

  “This is serious shit,” he said. “Fuck up and people get hurt or killed. Just think about that. Now I’m gonna look into these missing kids over here again—like I already told you. And I’m gonna see if there’s a Daryl Lee Gibbons connection. I’m gonna do a thorough and professional investigation. I appreciate the information you’ve given me. Now let me use it.”

  41

  I got in my car and I drove.

  I drove angrily and aggressively.

  It was dark now, traffic had thinned.

  I was on 285 driving like I had somewhere to be in a hurry.

  I had been at it a while, but my face still stung from embarrassment and frustration. I felt lonely and useless, isolated and guilty.

  I wasn’t sure how long the blue lights had been flashing before I noticed them, but I bet it had been a while.

  I pulled over and put my car in park, my heart pounding, my eyes bulging.

  “Where you headed in such a hurry, son?” the fifty-something gray-headed cop holding the bright light in my face asked.

  “Just out for a drive,” I said. “Clear my head.”

  “License and registration. Where do you live?”

  I told him as I handed him my documents.

  There wasn’t much traffic on 285, but what there was streaked by in a windy whoosh then disappeared again into the dark night.

  “Why do your plates say Florida?”

  “I’m a student,” I said. “Recently moved up here. “Permanent residence is in Florida.”

  He studied my license, then pointed his light back in my face. “Why’s your name sound so familiar?”

  I shrugged. “Not sure. But I get that a lot.”

  “No, I know. You’re the one that . . . they found that dead kid in your apartment.”

  “Actually, I found him,” I said.

  “You got that one cop killed. What was his name? And another half-dead, fighting for his life in the hospital right now. I’ve pulled me over a sure enough by god menace.”

  I started to explain but knew there was no use.

  “Just wait right here,” he said, then ambled back to his car.

  With Frank in the hospital and no friends on the force, I had no one to call. No friends. Only enemies. Only those who wished me ill.

  As alone and isolated as I had felt before, I felt far more so now—alone, isolated, and vulnerable. Very vulnerable.

  I sat there, flashing lights illuminating my car and the night around it, and waited.

  And waited.

  Eventually, another car, this one a dark unmarked, pulled in behind him.

  This time two cops approached my vehicle—one on either side.

  “Step out of the car,” he said.

  Stay calm. Don’t give them any reason to justify use of force or anything else.

  I did as I was told. Slowly. Carefully.

  “Hands on the hood,” he said. “Spread your legs.”

  I did, and he patted me down.

  As he did, the other cop began searching my car.

  “Larry Moore was a good cop,” the guy in my car said. “Miss him. The force misses him. The city misses him.”

  The cop behind me put his mouth to my ear. “Think anyone would miss you?”

  I shook my head.

  “Hands behind your back,” he said.

  I did as I was told and he cuffed me.

  The cop in the car popped the trunk, walked around, and began searching it.

  “Hey Kyle,” the cop behind me said, “how many cuffed losers resisting arrest have we had fall into oncoming traffic out here?”

  “Not enough, brother. Not enough.”

  He grabbed my arm and turned me around to face the four lanes of 285 closest to us.

  He smelled of cigarettes, fast-food, and aftershave.

  “They slow down some when they see our lights,” he said, “but not much. Not enough to make a difference. Hell, it’d be better for you if they sped up. Lot better to get eighty-sixed than made a vegetable.”

  Heart and head racing, I did my best not to let him know how much what he was doing was affecting me.

  Hooking his leg around my feet, he began leaning me toward the traffic, my hair blowing in the brisk breeze the cars generated.

  “Hey Kyle, could I get you to do me a favor?”

  “Anything for a brother, brother.”

  “Kill our lights.”

  It took a minute but he did.

  Now we were shrouded in darkness, and the speeding cars didn’t slow or break until they were on top of us—many of them not even then.

  “One little flick of my wrist,” he said. “Wonder how many lives I’d save?
How many cops?”

  “Good cops,” Kyle added.

  A car was approaching in the lane closest to us, and I could tell he was about to toss me in front of it.

  I was going to die without knowing what happened to Cedric Porter or whether or not Wayne Williams was guilty, without knowing or learning or experiencing a million other things that really mattered, and there was nothing I could do about it.

  Twenty seconds away.

  He adjusted his grip.

  Ten.

  Repositioned his leg around mine.

  Zero.

  He dropped me.

  I began to flail but with my hands cuffed behind me there wasn’t much I could do. Nothing to grab. Nothing to grab with.

  Falling.

  Reaching.

  Grasping.

  Then he grabbed me again and pulled me back.

  Tossing me back in my car, he uncuffed me, dropped a ticket for the largest amount allowed by law on top of me, and walked with Kyle to their cars without saying another word.

  Turning their lights back on to make a hole in the oncoming traffic, they sped off into the dark night.

  I sat there for a long time.

  How had this become my life?

  I had never felt so helpless, so small, so defenseless.

  Eventually I had my breathing back under control. I cranked the car and turned on the lights.

  Taking the next exit, I found the nearest payphone and called Harry Bosch.

  I hadn’t spoken to him in years, but he had said to call him whenever I needed to, and with Frank in a coma and my dad not speaking to me, I couldn’t think of anyone better to call than Bosch.

  Such was my trust for Bosch that even after all this time I felt comfortable to call him collect—the only option available to me at the moment.

  As I dialed, pulse pounding in my throat, I searched the dark side street for patrol cars—far more afraid of them than any other nocturnal urban threats.

  At my request, the operator let it ring a long time, but there was no answer.

  “Is there another number you’d like me to try, sir?” she asked.

  “No ma’am, thank you,” I said. “I don’t have anyone else to call.”

  I climbed back into my car and cranked it.

  Breathe. Calm down. Frank’s not available. Neither is Harry. That’s okay. You have what you need. Find your center. Grow up. You’re not a kid anymore. Here’s your chance to prove it.

  I pulled up the on-ramp and back onto 285.

  I had never driven the entire perimeter at one time before. I was going to tonight. I was going to obey the speed limit and drive far more cautiously than I had before, but I was not going to be deterred.

  I did it without getting stopped again. Sixty-four miles in a little less than an hour.

  Stopping at a Circle K store when I had finished circling the city, literally driving around in a circle because I didn’t know what else to do, I refueled and took off again—this time down 20 toward Grady to check on Frank.

  The city was different at night. It had an ethereal quality, as if it wasn’t the same place it was during the day, as if the night city and the day city weren’t the same city at all.

  Frank was still in a coma, still in ICU, so I did the only thing I could do—I sat alone in the empty ICU waiting room and waited.

  I waited because I didn’t know what else to do. What I was waiting for or how long I would wait for it wasn’t something I was clear about.

  After a while of just waiting, I decided there was something else I could do.

  Locating the small, empty chapel, I went in and prayed. I prayed for Frank, for his full recovery and no lasting damage at all. I prayed for Lonnie and the demon he was battling. I prayed for Summer and the different but equally difficult demon she was battling.

  I prayed for a while, then went back up to ICU waiting, where eventually I fell fast asleep.

  When I woke the next morning, families of very sick patients were beginning to fill the room, preparing for the first of four short visits they were granted each day.

  Easing up out of my chair, I made my way into the hallway and was about to leave when I saw Frank’s wife, Evelyn, and daughter walking up.

  Haggard and sad, the thin, pale skin of their faces looked like parchment stretched too tightly across the bones beneath.

  “John?” Evelyn said. “What’re you doing here?”

  “Hey, John,” Becca said with a little wave. She was Frank’s thirteen-year-old daughter, and seeing her made me wonder where his twelve-year-old son was.

  “Just came down to be close to him, to stay with him and pray for him last night.”

  “You stayed all night? That means a lot. Thank you.”

  “Wish I could do more.”

  “Becca, would you go down to that coffee machine and get me a cup?” Evelyn asked, handing her daughter a dollar.

  “Can I get one too?”

  “Sure honey,” she said, handing her another dollar. “Help yourself.”

  When Becca was gone, Evelyn turned back to me. “They say if he doesn’t wake up in the next day or so, chances are he won’t. Please pray even more, John. I don’t want to lose him. I can’t. I need to have the big ol’ square thing around. And the kids . . . how would they ever . . .”

  Fighting back tears, she patted me on the arm and pushed past me.

  “Come on Becca,” she called, “it’s almost time for visitation.”

  “Thought you wanted coffee?”

  “After. Let’s put on our best, bright faces for daddy.”

  As I was leaving, I ran into Don Paulk, who was arriving.

  He was here to pray with one of his parishioners prior to her surgery.

  A founder of the church, along with his brother Earl and their wives, Don had been particularly good to me since I moved to Atlanta—especially at the end of the LaMarcus Williams case when everything went so badly. LaDonna, who I had class with, was his daughter.

  “I was planning on coming down to the college to talk to you today,” he said.

  He’s heard about the lawsuit.

  “Your professors are concerned about how many classes you’re missing,” he added. “How are you, John?”

  I shrugged. “I’m okay, I guess.”

  “Can I take you to lunch after your classes today so we can really talk?”

  I hesitated a moment.

  “You are planning to attend your classes today, aren’t you?”

  The truth was I wasn’t.

  “That’s one of the things they wanted me to talk to you about,” he said. “You can’t miss any more and pass.”

  “Maybe I should just drop them for this quarter and start again next one,” I said.

  “I’d hate to see you do that,” he said. “It would mess up your schedule and when you can graduate—and many people who drop out don’t ever seem to start back. Tell you what, go today, then let’s go to lunch together and see if we can’t figure it out, okay?”

  “Remember the little boy who was found dead in my room?” I said.

  He nodded.

  “His mother’s threatening to bring a lawsuit against me,” I said.

  “I’m so sorry to hear that. Are you––”

  “She plans to name the college and the church since the apartment was being used for a dorm.”

  He didn’t seem surprised.

  “We can talk about that today too,” he said.

  “But—”

  “We can figure everything out, John. I promise.”

  42

  I had every intention of attending class and going to lunch with Pastor Don.

  Then Mickey called.

  “Found Jaquez Anderson’s dad,” he said. “’Bout to go talk to him. Wanna go?”

  I didn’t answer right away.

  “Come on,” he said. “I’ve got a feeling we’re gonna solve this thing. I really do. I’ve been working hard on it, but I could use your help. You kno
w I don’t like doing interviews.”

  “How can a reporter not like doing interviews?” I said.

  “I always worked with a partner. I did the writing. He did the research and reporting and chasing down of stories. I can do it. I just don’t like to.”

  “You pickin’ me up?” I said.

  “Ten minutes away.”

  While waiting for Mickey to arrive, I reviewed my notes on the case.

  Cedric Porter, Jamal Jackson, Quentin Washington, Jaquez Anderson, Duke Ellis, and Vaughn Smith. All missing. All between the ages of ten and fourteen. All vanished during the height of the Atlanta Child Murders. All living with single mothers who were neglectful. All of them lived off this end of Memorial Drive—all but Vaughn Smith that was. He had lived up off Wesley Chapel. Cedric and Jamal had both lived here in Memorial Manor. Quentin Washington and Jaquez Anderson had lived in an apartment complex on the other side of Memorial, Duke Ellis in a house down off North Hairston.

  So far every dad we had interviewed except for Cedric’s had articles of his son’s clothing or other items planted in his home or vehicle and had been suspected by the authorities of having taken his son.

  The only parents we had yet to track down were those of Jaquez Anderson and Vaughn Smith.

  I was glad Mickey had found Jaquez’s dad, but believed finding Vaughn’s was more important since he lived outside the pattern area.

  In fact, it was one of three big questions about this case. Why does Vaughn’s location break the pattern? Why does Cedric, Sr. not having items planted break the pattern? Where are the boys or their bodies?

  And then it hit me.

  According to Cedric, Sr., he wasn’t Cedric, Jr.’s real father. Was that true? Did the killer know? Was that why he didn’t have any clothing or other items planted in his home or vehicle? If so, that would explain why—and it might help us identify the killer. I’d have to look into that some more.

  Major Anderson worked at the Richway store on Covington Highway.

  Richway was a discount department store owned and operated by Rich’s. It was known for, among other things, the colorful raised wedge skylights on the roof. Its logo was an orange sunrise with black block letters beneath it, representing the store carried everything under the sun.

  We met Major on a loading dock in the back of the store during his brief morning break.