J. Daniel Sawyer - Clarke Lantham 01 by And Then She Was Gone Read Free Book Online

came back to his cheeks. “Okay, yeah, that’s great. Thanks.”
    “And Jason?”
    “Yeah?”
    I tossed my card on top of his jacket. “Call me if you hear anything about Nya?”
    “Yeah, okay.” He scooped up the jacket, and the pot underneath, and beat it.
     
    An hour later, I’d switched to coffee. The environment was a nice change from the old Vic back in Oakland—a string quartet tittered a little ways up the water, and the couches in the annex under the dome were more comfortable than my office chair. Nya’s phone—the one I’d found in her room—was dead. I’d have to pick up charger up for that tomorrow somewhere. I had my bluetooth keyboard with me, and I used it to organize my notes on the phone. It worked well until the phone rang and my headset didn’t.
    Spoiled rotten by technology, it didn’t occur to me until the third ring to pick the handset up.
    “Lantham.”
    “You want answers, Mr. Lantham.” gravelly, disguised, “Do you think you can handle them?”
    The caller ID was blocked. “Who is this?”
    “My identity is not for sale. I…” the voice broke down into a ragged hack.
    “Earl.”
    “Clarke. Couldn’t resist. Got your info on the girls.”
    “Shoot.”
    “Three natural births, one C-section. The girl Stephanie was born in Cambridge—the one in England—but her parents moved here when she was five. The others are all local families. No adoptions, not related in any way I can see.”
    “Thanks.” Boom went that beautiful theory. Not that it mattered to the case anymore. Still, good to have the loose end tied up.
    “The report’s in your inbox…now.” My phone beeped. “Along with the bill.”
    “Go ahead and charge the regular account.”
    “You mind if I record that?”
    “You just did.”
    “Yes, but I need your consent.”
    “You got it.”
    “Thanks. Let me know if you need anything else.”
    “Will do.” I hung up.
    After another ten minutes I’d hit the bottom of my coffee and the end of my notes. I rolled the membrane keyboard up and stuffed it into my inside jacket pocket.
    As I got to the car, it occurred to me that I ought to stake out one of the girls’ houses for the night, but a check of the Facebook taps once I got behind the wheel put that notion to bed pretty quick.
    Gina had an invite out to the other three girls for a visit to somewhere or something called “BAGG” on Sunday night. She’d drive. Google tried to convince me that BAGG was the Bay Area Geotechnical Group, but Google tends to be full of shit.
    The other two were in, and they all asked each other if anyone knew where Nya had run off to. A few theories were floated, all of them involving “G,” and none of them very plausible. The consensus developed that she’d probably be at “BAGG” tomorrow anyway, and they’d meet up with her there.
    No point in staking any of them out, then. The conversation, all carried out over private message, made it abundantly clear that none of them had the faintest idea of where Nya might be.
    “G.” Had to be Gravity. The one player in this little soap opera I hadn’t either talked to or put a tap on yet. His card, as given by Rawles, advertised “The Spectacular Gravity Experience,” a DJ act that earned him his rent money—if anyone under thirty in this town actually paid rent.
    Assuming he actually lived in this town. His area code was 415—San Francisco—probably a cell phone, so it might not mean anything, but even so…
    Three rings bumped me to voice mail. Badly-mic’d industrial blared through my phone as the greeting spun up. “Hi, I’m Gina,” said one vamped-up soprano, “And I’m Nya,” an alto, very rich tone, “And we’re the Gravity girls!” This was starting to sound like a poorly-produced phone sex ad. They took the rest of it in turns, “Our master’s busy with his needles right now, but if you want him to spin you a groove,” they tittered, “Well, you know what to do.”
    In case I hadn’t gotten