When I inspected the street I realized I’d wasted time on a fool’s errand. The fireplug I’d hit was slightly bent, and even after almost eighteen hours you could still see a trace of rubber in the road where I’d stood on my brakes. But there was no sign of where Nicola Aguinaldo had lain. She hadn’t been dead when we found her: no one outlined her body in chalk. I photographed the tread marks and the fireplug, using a flash since the light was dying.
The girls stopped their jumping to stare at me. “You know Morrell, miss?” “Take my picture too, miss?” “Put me in the book too, miss. Morrell talk to me, not to her.”
They began posing and shoving each other out of the way.
“Who’s Morrell?” I asked, wondering if a cop had come around pretending to be writing a book.
“Morrell, he’s a man, he’s writing a book about people who ran away from jail.”
I stared at the speaker, a girl of about nine with a braid that reached to the top of her shorts. “Ran away from jail? Does that mean—did he come here today?”
“No, not today, but most days. Now will you take my picture?”
I took shots of the little girls alone and together and tried to get them to tell me about Morrell. They spread their hands. He came around, he talked to some of the parents, especially Aisha’s father. They didn’t know who he was or where to find him. I gave it up and went back to inspecting the street, getting down on my hands and knees with the glass while Mr. Contreras stood over me to make sure no one hit me.
“You lose something, miss?” “You trying to find your ring?” “Is there a reward? We can help.”
I sat back on my heels. “You know a woman was hit here in the road last night? I’m a detective. I’m looking for any clues about her accident.”
“You really a detective? Where’s your gun?” one demanded, while another said, “Women can’t be detectives, don’t be a fool, Sarina.”
“Women can be detectives, and I am one,” I announced.
The girls started inspecting the area around the curb for clues. I found something like dried blood on the asphalt where I thought Nicola Aguinaldo had lain and photographed the spot from several different angles, then scraped a bit onto a tissue. It wouldn’t be very convincing if I had to talk to a judge or jury, but it was the best I could come up with.
The girls decided this meant Sarina was right—I must be a detective, they’d seen someone do the very same thing on television. After that they offered me a variety of items, from an empty Annie Greensleeves bottle to a Converse high–top. I solemnly inspected their findings. In the midst of the detritus, a piece of metal caught my eye as it had theirs: “This is gold, isn’t it, miss, is it valuable? Do we get a reward?”
It wasn’t gold but heavy plastic. It was new, and its shine had attracted the girls—it clearly hadn’t lain long in the gutter. It was shaped like a Greek omega, but it wasn’t a charm, more like some kind of signature from a handbag zipper, or maybe a shoe. I thought I should recognize the designer, but I couldn’t place it off the top of my head.
Mr. Contreras was getting restive: he really wanted to get out to Park Ridge to look at the car he’d picked out. I pocketed the emblem and put the rest of their findings in the garbage.
“Who is the oldest?” I asked.
“Sarina’s twelve,” they volunteered.
I handed a girl in a fringed scarf one of my cards and three dollars. “The money is for all of you to share; it’s your reward for helping me hunt for clues. The card is for your friend Morrell. When he comes again, will you give it to him? It has my name and phone number on it. I’d like him to call me.”
The girls clustered around Sarina. “What’s it say?” “Ooh, Sarina, she is a detective, it say so right here.” “She going to arrest you, Mina, for talking back to your mama.”
Their comments faded as we rounded the corner to the L. Mr. Contreras filled me in on the Buick Skylark we were going to see. “He’s asking seventeen hundred, but it’s got ninety–eight thousand miles. You can probably bring him down a couple a hundred, but maybe you want your buddy Luke to go over a car before you buy it—all these computers and whatnot it ain’t so easy to tell what’s going on inside an engine these days.”
“Yeah, my buddy Luke.” I thought bitterly of our conversation this afternoon. “He’s likely to demand the mortgage on my apartment before he lifts a finger to help. After getting my estimates from Luke I’m beginning to think I should rent something for a few weeks. Even fifteen hundred seems way more than I can afford for temporary wheels, and if it’s that beat up I’ll have trouble reselling it.”