Missing - Adam Nicholls (ready player one ebook txt) 📗

“No.”

“You look like a cop.”

“I’m not a cop.”

Scanning his features once more, she held out her palm until he slapped fifty dollars into it. “Follow me,” she said, then turned and walked toward a rundown building with aggressive graffiti decorating its walls and windows.

Mason gave her the benefit of the doubt and went after her. Inside was a tall, narrow staircase, which went up five different flights. Each landing was littered with shabbily dressed young men, most of whom had their lips nuzzled into girls’ necks. Mason clenched his trench coat, careful not to let it flap into somebody’s way. He’d been to these sorts of places before: there was always someone looking for an excuse.

“Wait here.” The hooker stopped, then disappeared for a few moments before returning and waving her hand.

Mason went in, struck by the painfully strong smell of marijuana right away—bad quality, too. “Who set the fire?” he jested, but the woman’s passive expression didn’t falter.

They came into a large open room thick with smoke, neon, and swarms of people dressed only in black. All eyes followed him as he strode across the room and approached the desk, which appeared to be the highlight of the room.

“What have we here?” Sitting at the desk was a black man, perhaps early thirties, with a badly trimmed goatee and a dark beret. He looked at Mason with obvious skepticism; a raised eyebrow here, a chin rub there.

“I’m looking for a kid who might’ve been through here,” Mason told him, handing over the photo. “Nobody’s in trouble. But he was recently found dead, and we’re trying to pick up a trail.”

“We?” The man looked up at the prostitute, then back at Mason. “You a cop?”

“Private investigator,” Mason corrected.

“Shit, man.” He sunk his face into his palms before looking up at the girl. “Patty, what the hell do you think you’re doing, bringing PIs up in here?”

“I didn’t think—”

“You never do.” The man pushed back from his desk and shot to his feet. “Get out of my sight.”

“She thought I was a cop and she still let me up here,” Mason offered, throwing a wrench in the works. It was never his intention to anger this man—he only wanted information—but this chick had been rude to him, and he would never let that slide.

“What?” she screamed. “He’s lying! Rosco, I—”

“Go, before I lose my temper.”

She stormed out, spitting at Mason’s feet as she passed, but he didn’t stop grinning.

“Now, this boy you’re looking for…” The man—Rosco—slammed his palm onto the desk, and all chatter around them stopped. “What the hell’s it got to do with you? Ain’t the police already looking into it?”

Mason cleared his throat. “Not over here, they’re not. And if I get what I want, they’ll have no need to be here, either. Do we understand each other?”

Rosco sighed, smiling uncomfortably at the eavesdropping partyers. Finally, he threw his hands up. “Look, I seen the kid around, but he was only window-shopping, if you catch my drift. Some say he went off with some dame last night, but she wasn’t one of mine. So, if you don’t mind…” He raised his hands toward the door.

Mason examined his expression. He seemed sincere. Once he’d accepted it was a dead end, he leaned over, grabbed the photo, and headed for the door. “Thank you for your time.”

As soon as he stepped outside, Mason cursed under his breath. This was his only lead, and now here he was, alone, in a shady neighborhood, and with no information at all.

Once again, he found himself fumbling around his pockets for cigarettes.

What the hell is wrong with me?