Little Girls Lost by J. A. Kerley Read Free Book Online Page B

masks either frightening or comical. The air was perfumed with thyme and garlic and cayenne. Clifton Chenier played the “Zydeco Cha Cha” over the sound system. There were no customers, but it was just past eleven a.m., the place open maybe five minutes.
    Before he’d even pulled out his chair, a bigbosomed black woman with an electric smile banged through the doors from the kitchen, a pot of coffee in one hand, white ceramic mug in the other.
    “You look like a man needin’ caffeine,” she said, filling the mug and setting it on the table.
    “Actually, I need to see Conner Sandhill.”
    The woman’s smile flattened into tight-eyed scrutiny. Her toe tapped the floor.
    “You’re a cop, right?”
    “I’ve been getting conflicting opinions. But I think so.”
    The waitress returned to the kitchen. Ryder heard a female whisper followed by a deep male groan. Sandhill arrived a minute later. He was a big, barrel-chested guy wearing a felt crown and a vest fronted with purple sequins. Sequins were missing and the blank areas had been filled in with purple dots of paint. Sandhill sat—nimbly for such a moose, Ryder noted, feeling Sandhill give him the once-over with large eyes, his bushy mustache twitching as if he were checking Ryder’s scent.
    “I remember seeing you a time or two, Ryder. Years ago. You go after the psychos these days,right? Is that why you’re here? Has someone reported me as psychotic?”
    “I was ordered here by the acting chief of police, Mr Sandhill. He wanted me to talk to you.”
    Sandhill slammed his fist on the table.
    “CORNBREAD!”
    The waitress pushed through the kitchen doors seconds later. She slid a plate on to the table, four steaming squares of cornbread, butter and honey to the side.
    “I’m not hungry,” Ryder said, not wanting to break bread with the guy.
    “I’d advise it,” Sandhill said. “Stress has put you off your feed lately, right, Detective? People getting on you about losing weight?”
    Ryder stared, nonplussed. A half dozen people, Nautilus included, had asked if he was on a diet. Just yesterday Clair Peltier had given him her third Your-Body-Needs-Sleep-and-Fuel lecture in two weeks.
    “Uh, how did you know that?”
    Sandhill nodded at Ryder’s waist. “Your belt’s buckled to a new hole. More tongue’s showing on the far side.”
    Ryder had pulled the belt two notches tighter the preceding week. He looked down and saw the old indentation in the leather from years in the same position. The leather beside the current hole was unmarred. One glance and Sandhill had scoped it out and added it up.
    Jesus, Ryder thought.
    “Eat,” Sandhill said.
    Driven by the glorious aroma, Ryder couldn’t help himself, wolfing down two pieces of the yellow manna.
    “Now that you’ve had a bit of a repast,” Sandhill said, buttering his own piece of cornbread, “might I ask what the ever-talented Terrence Squill wants of me?”
    “We’ve got a problem, Mr Sandhill.” Ryder dabbed crumbs from his mouth with a napkin. “The missing girls. Nothing’s coming together. We need fresh eyes. Plus we found one of the abducted girls, LaShelle Shearing. Dead.”
    “The body in the fire.” Sandhill nodded. “You guys aren’t doing real good, PR-wise.”
    “A girl abducted a year ago, then two girls taken in under two weeks. No evidence, nothing. No one’s seen anything, heard anything.”
    Sandhill pushed the platter to Ryder. One square of cornbread left. Ryder grabbed it.
    “Who’s leading the investigations?” Sandhill asked.
    “I did at first, by default. Like you noted, I’m a member of the PSIT, which stands for—”
    “The Psychopathological and Sociopathological Investigative Team,” Sandhill completed, staring Ryder in the eye. “You and Harry Nautilus. For two guys, you’ve had big results. The morgue killer, the serial-killer-memorabilia freaks, the family of millionaire psychos that weirdness in New York, that preacher case…I’d think you’d