The Body Box Read Online Free PDF Page B

I rolled up to the little white frame house where Jenny Dial lived and sat there in the car for a minute, my heart beating fast. This was not the smart play, and I knew it. If word got back to Sgt. Fairoaks in Missing and Abused that I was poaching on her territory, then it would get back to the Chief, and the Chief would rip me a new one.
    I tried to tell myself to let the whole thing go, to just go back to the office and forget about Jenny Dial. But I couldn’t. I don’t know why, but I couldn’t.
    The house was a small wood-frame structure in a mostly Hispanic neighborhood off Buford Highway. Mexicans had been pouring into the area for about five years, and most of the poor whites who used to live there had moved on.
    I knocked on the door. It opened swiftly.
    â€œNo news,” I said quickly, showing my badge. When somebody’s missing, people think the worst every time a cop comes to the door. “Detective Deakes, Atlanta Police. Mind if I ask you a couple questions?”
    â€œCome on in,” the woman said. “I’m Tracy Dial, Jenny’s mother.” She was small boned and blunt featured, with a blond dye job that showed an inch or two of dull brown root. She wore a Waffle House waitress uniform and had a couple of blurry green jailhouse tattoos on one forearm. But despite the trailer-trash signifiers, there was something about her that seemed strong and solid.
    â€œI thought Sergeant Fairoaks was working on Jenny’s case,” the woman said.
    â€œI’m from a different unit,” I said. “Following up a different angle.”
    Tracy Dial studied me for a minute. “What angle would that be?”
    â€œProbably nothing,” I said.
    â€œThat’s not an answer.”
    â€œYou’re right,” I said. “I’m sorry. I was in on the bust of that pedophile ring the other day. We’re trying to see if there are any connections.”
    She narrowed her eyes for a moment, then said, “Wait, I saw you on TV the other night. You’re the one killed that pervert.”
    I nodded.
    â€œGood for you.”
    â€œIt’s not keeping me up nights,” I said. Not entirely accurately.
    There was a brief pause. Tracy Dial studied me with a pair of intelligent brown eyes. “Detective,” she said finally. “I don’t who you are, what angle you working here. But look.” She held up her arm, showing me the jailhouse tats. “Every cop that comes in here, first thing they do, their eyes go down to my arm. Okay, yeah, I went through a bad stretch once. But it was a long time ago. So I’m goddamn tired of cops coming in here acting like I’m stink on their shoe, acting like I probably done something wrong, acting like this is nothing because my deadbeat ex probably just wandered off with her. Okay? So before I answer any y’all’s questions, I want to know what the hell y’all gonna do to find my little girl.”
    I thought about it for a while. What was I going to do to find her little girl?
    â€œThat cop in charge of finding Jenny, the one from Missing Children? I don’t believe she’s taking this serious.”
    I wanted to tell her I agreed with her. But you can’t say that to a victim. Instead I said, “Sergeant Fairoaks is a good cop.”
    â€œYou say you’re working an angle. What angle? I asked you once and you dodged my question. Now, what you doing to help me?”
    Again, what was I going to say—that I was off the reservation, running on some kind of impulse, and that even I didn’t know what it was about? “I can’t tell you that,” I said.
    Tracy Dial’s face got hard. “You people make me sick. That’s what that paper pusher Fairoaks keeps telling me. I ask her what progress she’s making, she tells me ‘I can’t tell you that.’ Then she starts in asting questions about my ex. My first husband, Jenny’s