The missing witness, p.1
The Missing Witness, page 1
Praise for the novels of
Allison Brennan
“Set among Louisiana’s swamps and brooding atmosphere, Seven Girls Gone is a complex mystery whose characters are as intriguing as the storyline.”
—Denver Post
“Fans of this series will be happy with this latest novel... The bayou setting is great here, and the small-town locals are a good added touch to the story.”
—Red Carpet Crash on Seven Girls Gone
“[Brennan] keeps readers guessing whodunit to the end.”
—Publishers Weekly on The Wrong Victim
“An intense, pulse pounding thriller from start to finish. There were so many suspects, not to mention surprises and twists.”
—The Reading Cafe on The Wrong Victim
“Allison Brennan is always good but her latest and most ambitious work ever...is downright spectacular... A riveting page turner as prescient as it is purposeful.”
—Providence Journal on Tell No Lies
“Bestseller Brennan’s intriguing sequel to...The Third to Die...[has] fast-paced action...[and a] well-constructed mystery plot.”
—Publishers Weekly on Tell No Lies
“A lean thriller starring a strong and damaged protagonist who’s as compelling as Lisbeth Salander.”
—Kirkus Reviews on The Third to Die
“Leave all the lights on... You’ll be turning the pages [as] fast as you can.”
—Catherine Coulter, New York Times bestselling author of Labyrinth, on The Third to Die
Allison Brennan is the New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling and award-winning author of over forty novels, including The Sorority Murder. She lives in Arizona with her husband, five kids and assorted pets. The Missing Witness is the fifth thriller in the Quinn & Costa series.
AllisonBrennan.com
Also by Allison Brennan
Quinn & Costa Thrillers
The Third to Die
Tell No Lies
The Wrong Victim
Seven Girls Gone
The Missing Witness
Regan Merritt Series
The Sorority Murder
Don’t Open the Door
Look for Allison Brennan’s next novel
You’ll Never Find Me
available soon from MIRA.
For additional books by Allison Brennan, visit her website, www.allisonbrennan.com.
The Missing Witness
Allison Brennan
To Kevin Dahlgren
With admiration for your great work and sincere thanks for your help in making this story as authentic as possible.
Contents
February
Chapter 1
Monday, October 7
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
May
Chapter 8
Monday, October 7
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Tuesday, October 8
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
August
Chapter 18
Tuesday, October 8
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
September
Chapter 21
Tuesday, October 8
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Monday, October 7
Chapter 24
Tuesday, October 8
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Wednesday, October 9
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Thursday, October 10
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Friday, October 11
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Acknowledgments
February
Eight Months Ago
1
My parking garage off Fifth was nearly a mile from where I worked at city hall. I could have paid twice as much to park two blocks from my building and avoid the rows of homeless people: the worn tents, the used needles, the stinking garbage, the aura of hopelessness and distrust that filled a corner park and bled down the streets.
I was listening to my favorite podcast, LA with A&I. Amy and Ian started the podcast two years ago to talk about computer gaming, technology, entertainment and Los Angeles. It had blossomed into a quasi news show and they live streamed every morning at seven. They’d riff on tech and local news as if sitting down with friends over coffee. Like me, they were nerds, born and bred in the City of Angels. I’d never met Amy or Ian in real life, but felt like I’d known them forever.
We’d chatted over Discord, teamed up to play League of Legends, and I often sent them interesting clips about gaming or tech that they talked about on their podcast, crediting my gaming handle. Twice, we’d tried to set up coffee dates, but I always chickened out. I didn’t know why. Maybe because I thought they wouldn’t like me if they met me. Maybe because I was socially awkward. Maybe because I didn’t like people knowing too much about my life.
Today while I drove to work, they’d discussed the disaster that was city hall: all the digital files had been wiped out. The news story lasted for about five minutes, but it would be my life for the next month or more as my division rebuilt the data from backups and archives. It was a mess. They laughed over it; I tried to, but I was beginning to suspect the error was on purpose, not by mistake.
Now they were talking about a sweatshop that had been shut down last week.
“We don’t know much,” Amy said. “You’d think after eight days there’d be some big press conference, or at least a front-page story. The only thing we found was two news clips—less than ninety seconds each—and an article on LA Crime Beat.”
“David Chen,” Ian said, “a Chinese American who allegedly trafficked hundreds of women and children to run his factory in Chinatown, was arraigned on Monday, but according to Crime Beat, the FBI is also investigating the crime. And—get this—the guy is already out on bail.”
“It’s fucked,” Amy said. “Look, I’m all for bail reform. I don’t think some guy with weed in his pocket should have to pay thousands of bucks to stay out of jail while the justice system churns. But human trafficking is a serious crime—literally not two miles from city hall, over three hundred people were forced to work at a sweatshop for no money. They had no freedom, lived in a hovel next door to the warehouse. Crime Beat reported that the workers used an underground tunnel to avoid being seen—something I haven’t read in the news except for one brief mention. And Chen allegedly killed one of the women as he fled from police. How did this guy get away with it? He kills someone and spends no more than a weekend behind bars?”
“According to Crime Beat, LAPD investigated the business for months before they raided the place,” Ian said. “But Chen has been operating for years. How could something like this happen and no one said a word?”
I knew how. People didn’t see things they didn’t want to.
Case in point: the homeless encampment I now walked by.
I paused the podcast and popped my earbuds back into their charging case.
“Hello, Johnny,” I said to the heroin addict with stringy hair that might be blond, if washed. I knew he was thirty-three, though he looked much older. His hair had fallen out in clumps, his teeth were rotted, and his face scarred from sores that came and went. He sat on a crusty sleeping bag, leaned against the stone wall of a DWP substation, his hollow eyes staring at nothing. As usual, he didn’t acknowledge me. I knew his name because I had asked when he wasn’t too far gone. Johnny, born in Minnesota. He hadn’t talked to his family in years. Thought his father was dead, but didn’t remember. He once talked about a sister and beamed with pride. She’s really smart. She’s a teacher in...then his face dropped because he couldn’t remember where his sister lived.
Four years ago, I left a job working for a tech start-up company to work in IT for city hall. It was barely a step up from entry-level and I couldn’t afford nearby parking garages. If I took a combination of buses and the metro, it would take me over ninety minutes to get to work from Burbank, so factoring the combination of time and money, driving was my best bet and I picked the cheapest garage less than a mile from work.
I used to cringe when I walked by the park. Four years ago, only a dozen homeless tents dotted the corner; the numbers had more than quadrupled. Now that I could afford a more expensive garage, I didn’t want it. I knew most of the people here by name.
“Hey, Toby,” I greeted the old black man wearing three coats, his long, dirty gray beard falling to his stomach. He had tied a rope around his waist and attached it to his shopping cart to avoid anyone stealing his worldly possessions when he slept off his alcohol.
“Mizvi,” he said, running my name together in a slur. He called me “Miss Violet” when he was sober. He must have still been coming down off whatever he’d drank last night.
I smiled. Four years ago I never smiled at these people, fearing something undefinable. Now I did, even when I wanted to cry. I reached into my purse and pulled out a bite-size Hershey Bar. Toby loved chocolate. I handed it to him. He took it with a wide grin, revealing stained teeth.
One of the biggest myths about the homeless is that they’re hungry. They have more food than they can eat. That doesn’t mean many aren’t malnourished. Drug and alcohol abuse can do that to a person.
A couple weeks ago a church group had thought they would bring in sandwiches and water as part of community service. It was a nice gesture, sure, but they could have asked what was needed instead of assuming that these people were starving. Most of the food went uneaten, left outside tents to become rat food. The plastic water bottles were collected to return for the deposit, which was used to buy drugs and alcohol.
But no one gave Toby chocolate, he once told me when he was half-sober. Now, whenever I saw him—once, twice a week—I gave him a Hershey Bar. He would die sooner than he should, so why couldn’t I give him a small pleasure that I could afford? Toby was one of the chronics, a man who’d been on the street for years. He had no desire to be anywhere else, trusted no one, though I thought he trusted me a little. I wished I knew his story, how he came to be here, how I could reach him to show him a different path. His liver had to be slush with the amount of alcohol he consumed. Alcohol he bought because people, thinking they were helping—or just to make themselves feel better—handed him money.
As I passed the entrance to the small park, the stench of unwashed humans assaulted me. The city had put four porta-potties on the edge of the park but they emptied them once a month, if that. They were used more for getting high and prostitution than as bathrooms. The city had also put up fencing, but didn’t always come around to lock the gate. Wouldn’t matter; someone would cut it open and no one would stop them. Trespassing was the least of the crimes in the area.
I dared to look inside the park, though I didn’t expect to see her. I hadn’t seen her for over a week. I found myself clutching my messenger bag that was strapped across my chest. Not because I thought someone would steal it, but because I needed to hold something, as if my bag was a security blanket.
I didn’t see her among the tents or the people sitting on the ground, on the dirt and cushions, broken couches and sleeping bags, among the needles and small, tin foils used to smoke fentanyl. I kicked aside a vial that had once held Narcan, the drug to counteract opioid overdoses. The clear and plastic vials littered the ground, remnants of addiction.
There was nothing humane about allowing people to get so wasted they were on the verge of death, reviving them, then leaving them to do it over and over again. But that was the system.
The system was fucked.
Blue and red lights whirled as I approached the corner. I usually crossed Fifth Street here, but today I stopped, stared at the silent police car.
The police only came when someone was dying...or dead.
Mom.
I found my feet moving toward the cops even though I wanted to run away. My heart raced, my vision blurred as tears flashed, then disappeared.
Mom.
I knew several of the local cops because I had been volunteering for the last two years with First Contact, a nonprofit that connected the homeless with available resources. I didn’t recognize the first officer that got out, then I saw Officer Juan Perez. He frowned when I approached.
“Violet, you should wait here.”
He wasn’t surprised to see me. He knew that I walked by the park five days a week on my way to work. He understood why.
I shook my head. “I can help.”
I was grateful he didn’t try to dissuade me. I followed him through the broken metal gate. Juan said to his fellow officer, “Steve, this is Violet Halliday. She works with First Contact.”
Steve’s badge read S Colangelo. All LAPD officers had training with the homeless population. There were social workers who could be called upon to assist, but they were few and far between and their response time was pathetic. First Contact was made up of mostly volunteers, like me, and often arrived to a situation before the paid social workers—if they showed up at all.
The wary eyes of the homeless watched as we walked toward the far corner of the park. The cops wore sturdy boots; I had sneakers so was more cautious where I stepped.
A row of five tents were lined against the brick wall of a shelter that housed one hundred people a night. It was just as dangerous for the men and women inside the shelter as it was outside because the shelter didn’t ban drugs or alcohol, had minimal security and handed out pretty little bags with clean needles and straws under the so-called “harm reduction” model. As if dying of a drug overdose was better than dying of hepatitis.
I glanced left and spotted the blue tent with a tear on the roof sealed with zebra-patterned duct tape. Flaps closed. It was the last place I’d seen my mother ten days ago when she once again told me to go to hell.
Please don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead.
My mom was slowly killing herself, so I knew that one day I would pass by this park and she would be dead. But it wasn’t today.
Steve spoke to a couple, a man and woman named Fletch and Gina. First Contact had been working with them since they turned up here two months ago. They hadn’t shared their last names, but every time we came out, they seemed to be more receptive and friendly.
The first step to getting off the street was to obtain ID. Finding family who might pitch in or help navigate the tremendous bureaucracy of the drug or mental health programs was always beneficial. But nothing happened without official identification.
Gina sat on a foam cushion outside a faded canvas tent, Fletch with his head in her lap, eyes closed. Passed out or sleeping or ignoring the commotion. Gina paid no attention to the cops, but turned to me with sad blue eyes and said, “Bobby.”
I knew Bobby’s story. I’d talked to him several times because I thought he was someone I could help.
My mom made it clear that she didn’t want my help, that she resented me even trying to help her, but others were more receptive. Cautious—because they had been lied to and let down in the past—but with enough time and patience, I could reach them.
Bobby was twenty-nine, like me. He got hooked on heroin when he was seventeen. In and out of rehab. Got a job here and there, but couldn’t hold anything down longer than a couple months because he would go “chasing the dragon” and not show up for days. Lived with his mom, who told him no drugs but didn’t enforce the rule. Because she loved him, worried about him, feared for him—all of the above. Then one night when she was working late, Bobby got wasted. He was speedballing, combined meth with heroin and was so wired that he smoked pot to calm himself down, didn’t realize the pot was laced with fentanyl and “went bonkers.” His words. Trashed the house, then crashed. When his mom came home, she had him arrested. He went to jail for three days, court-ordered rehab for thirty. But under California law, any facility that took public money couldn’t be dry. So he popped whatever pills were around and, when the thirty days were up, went back home high as a kite and his mother refused to let him in.
She was crying, but she didn’t budge. I felt like shit, but what can I do? I tried the rehab thing, it didn’t take.
Of course it didn’t take, I thought. Counseling only went so far: Don’t do drugs, they’re bad for you. Here, have a clean needle so you’re safe.
Bobby had been on the streets for three years. The last six months he’d been here, in this tent, never wandering far. He’d deteriorated rapidly over the last few months, as if he’d given up on living before he died.
Both Juan and Steve wore gloves. Steve pulled the latex over his watch—an expensive-looking watch with a yellow face. Gina eyed it with narrowed eyes. I knew she had a shoplifting problem, but I didn’t think she’d rip off a cop.
Juan opened the flap. He didn’t touch the body; the smell announced death. Bobby had died sometime in the last twenty-four hours, probably last night. Steve called it in. They would wait here until the coroner arrived.
