“That’s not important, Tracy,” Liann said.
Tracy shrugged. “Whatever, right? It all came together. I want to see this man stopped. I want to see him punished.”
Her voice took on an edge that wasn’t there before, one that sounded personal. She stabbed the dying cigarette into the ashtray as if to punctuate her point. She looked away from me then, her hand near her mouth.
The crowd in the Fantasy Club picked up. Businessmen in ties sat at tables side by side with truckers and farmworkers. True democracy. There was a stirring behind the curtain on the stage, and somebody clapped. It looked like the show was about to begin.
“We need to tell the police,” I said.
Tracy’s head whipped around toward me.
“No,” she said, the same edge in her voice. She turned to Liann. “You said I didn’t have to.”
Liann gave me a quick glance, letting me know I was crossing some boundary. She leaned in toward Tracy and adopted the motherly pose again, speaking to the young woman in a gentle, comforting tone of voice.
“You said you wanted to help,” Liann said to her. “And this is the way to help. This is the way to make a difference. The only way to find this guy is to call the police. I’ll watch out for you and make sure they don’t bullshit you.”
But Tracy shook her head. She pushed back from the table and grabbed her gym bag.
“You didn’t say anything about the police, Liann. You told me no cops. You know that’s how it has to be. You know that. I trusted you.”
She stood up, a swirl of motion, and not even Liann calling her name slowed her down as she walked away. So I stood up and said her name, louder than I’d intended apparently. Tracy stopped and so did a lot of other people. They were all looking at me, their heads half cocked, their mouths partly open. Some of them smirked, and others nudged their friends as if to say, Here’s the show! Watch this guy get all crazy over a fucking stripper.
“Tracy, wait. Wait!”
She stopped in her tracks, her back to me. She didn’t turn around, didn’t encourage me, but she appeared to be waiting. Listening.
My audience listened as well.
“This is my daughter,” I said. “Like you said, you’d want someone to help your little girl if she needed it.”
Someone let out a long, sarcastic “Awwwww,” and someone else shouted, “Show us your tits!”
Tracy still didn’t move.
“Please, Tracy. You’re our only lead here.”
I couldn’t see her face. I couldn’t read what she was thinking or if my words were sinking in at all.
“I don’t like the police,” she said, her voice small and childlike.
“Liann’s right,” I said. “They have to be involved. They can help us.”
Tracy didn’t say anything else, but her head moved ever so slightly. A quick nod with her eyes squeezed shut. It looked like surrender.
“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you.”
Chapter Seven
A dark sedan entered the parking lot of the Fantasy Club and came toward the building. It was Detective Ryan. Liann and I stood next to each other while he parked and exited the car. Ryan was taller than me and thick through the middle, with a bushy mustache that more than compensated for his thinning hair. His belt buckle always hung low, beneath his gut, and Ryan frequently used his large, powerful hands to hitch his pants higher. He had come to us the day Caitlin disappeared and he led the investigation the entire time. Early on, he was a comforting presence in our house, a distant but protective father with the power to restore order.
We shook hands as he stepped into the glow from the Fantasy Club’s entrance lights. They were orange and yellow and cast Ryan in a surreal wash. I knew Ryan wouldn’t like seeing Liann there. She asked questions and second-guessed the police in a way that must have made Ryan feel like he was getting nibbled to death by ducks. But I always appreciated Liann’s efforts. I figured the more questions being asked, the more pressure being exerted, the greater the likelihood something good would result and Caitlin would be found. Ryan nodded at Liann, his lips pursed into a forced smile.
I gave Ryan a quick rundown of what had happened, with Liann filling in details when needed. He listened, not saying anything or commenting in any way. Ryan wore what I thought of as a cop mask. He kept his face impassive regardless of the circumstance and frequently began his sentences with the phrase “I don’t have a horse in this race . . .” But I never failed to notice the way his eyes appraised me while I spoke, absorbing my every gesture or inflection and recording it somewhere.
When I’d told him all there was to know, he still didn’t say anything, so I pushed.
“So what do you think?”
“I think I need to talk to this woman,” he said. “If she seems credible, maybe we can get a sketch of this guy out to the media.”
At last, something. A step might be taken.
“She doesn’t want to talk to you, Ryan,” Liann said.