Girl, 11 by Amy Clarke (grave mercy TXT) 📗

nothing to argue. Sam continued: “I might not be able to get you for Leo’s murder, but I’ve heard some interesting stories. Now, I’m happy to bring my findings to the Robbery Unit and see what they might have to say about it, or I could write your buddies off as jailhouse snitches that would say anything to get a deal. It’s really up to you.”

After a moment, Duane licked across his teeth and jerked his head toward Elle. “Seriously, man, what the hell is she doing here?”

Elle’s teeth came together as Sam said, “Never mind that. What can you tell me about this van?”

“What do you want to know?”

Sam smiled. “I would like to know if anyone drove a blue 2001 Dodge Ram 1500 van into your shop in the last four days, and if they did, I would like you to take me to it right now.”

Duane looked at Elle again, but she just glared back. He sighed. “Okay, yeah. Someone brought a van like that in here the other night.”

“Which night?” Sam asked.

“I don’t know? Like, three nights ago, I guess.”

Elle jumped in. “Which night? Monday or Tuesday? Where is it?”

“I don’t know! It’s . . . it’s not here anymore.”

She slammed her hands down on the armrests and slid to the edge of the chair, ready to strangle him. “What do you mean, it’s not here anymore?” Then she paused, horrified. “You . . . you stripped it already, didn’t you?”

Duane didn’t even have the sense to look ashamed. He jutted his chin out and crossed his arms. “What are you going to do?” he asked. “Arrest me?”

“Not us.” Sam crossed his arms to match Duane’s. “We’ll let the Robbery Unit take care of that.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on.” Duane held up his hands, palms out. “I might not have the van anymore, but I can tell you who brought it in.” He waggled his eyebrows.

Elle scoffed and cut her eyes to Sam. “And he’s not going to tell us without some kind of deal. Guess this is what we get, asking a sleaze-bag like him for help.”

Duane shrugged, a cocky smile slicing through his ruddy face. “You know what they say: careful what you wish for.”

“You know the guy who brought it in? You’re sure?” Elle asked.

“Don’t even bother trying to lie your way out of this, either,” Sam cut in. “You’re not that hard to find if your lead ends up being a dud.”

“Are you kidding? I’d never lie to a fine, upstanding detective.” Duane’s eyes flicked to Elle’s face and he gestured at her. “And the nosy armchair detective with a radio show.”

Before Elle could respond, Duane continued. “That’s right, I knew I recognized your voice. Leo used to play your shit all the time in the shop. Fake, bleeding-heart crap. Maybe if you hadn’t gotten him all riled up, thinking he could play detective, he wouldn’t have gone and got himself killed. You’re no investigator; you’re just a cocky bitch with a microphone and nobody to tell you when to shut your mouth.”

For a moment, Elle stared at him. Everything he said was what she had been worrying about for days, since she walked in and found Leo lying dead on the floor. But the constant buzz of terror in her mind when she thought of Amanda and Natalie, the thought that he could know more than what he was saying—that made her brave. It made her fearless.

Her face stretched into a wide grin, teeth bared. “Don’t you see, Duane? That’s the best part. I’m not a cop. I’m just a citizen who cares about finding that van. I’m just the host of a podcast with hundreds of thousands of listeners who would happily give your name and place of work to the whole internet and let them know you not only got rid of evidence in a little girl’s kidnapping, but then gave us the runaround when we asked for your help finding the guy who brought it in. But don’t worry. People on the internet are notoriously happy to hear both sides of the story when it comes to crimes against children.”

Duane’s face drained of color. “What the fuck?” He turned to Sam. “You’re just going to let her threaten me like that?”

Sam’s brow wrinkled in feigned confusion. “I’m sorry? I wasn’t listening.”

“His name’s Eduardo, okay? I don’t know his last name.” Duane’s eyes skittered between Elle and Sam. Drops of sweat broke out across his forehead, among the dark stubble on his scalp. “Don’t talk about me on your podcast, okay? I know the kind of thing you do, taking clips of what people say out of context and analyzing them so it sounds like they meant something different. I’m telling you the truth—that’s all I know. And you didn’t tell me this was about a fucking kid getting kidnapped. I would have told you everything right away. Geez.”

Elle ignored the insults. Men who took issue with her voice and theories on the cases she investigated were old news at this point.

“Seriously? That’s all you have for us?” Sam walked around the desk to face Duane. His voice was casual, friendly. It made him even more frightening. “We came all this way, man. I’m sure you have more information about the guy than that. You probably know everyone who comes in and out of here, don’t you?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess.”

“Course you do! Smooth businessman like yourself. You can’t afford to forget a face. Sure you can’t remember anything more about this guy?”

Duane’s expression changed, the color returning to his cheeks. He managed to stare up at Sam in both fear and admiration. “H-his name’s Eduardo. He’s about your height and Mexican. Or Central American—I don’t know. He works at Mitchell University, cleaning the floors and shit. That’s all I got, I swear.”

Sam stood up with a wide, genuine-looking smile, and clapped Duane on the shoulder. Duane flinched, and Elle smirked, knowing Sam was squeezing hard. “Great, thanks, man.” He turned to her, teeth