"Broussard, John A - Gone Missing" - читать интересную книгу автора (Broussard John A)

= Gone Missing
by John A. Broussard


There were few calls Sergeant Corky Medeiros liked less than "My daughter's gone missing." Most of the time, the girl and perhaps a friend had taken off for Honolulu to find adventure in the big city. But sometimes the results were far more grim--a badly beaten body left in a cane field or, perhaps worse, just a total and permanent disappearance. As she listened to the distraught father, Corky was thankful she was part of the Elima Island PD and not over on Oahu. A rural police force didn't have the problems on the scale their counterpart over there faced.

Today's runaway's mother was Portuguese, the father half-Hawaiian, half-haole. The story wasn't much different from the usual. Leilani Johnson had driven off with her boyfriend the morning before, and there had been no word from either of them for over twenty-four hours.

Corky was, in theory, supposed to wait forty-eight hours before following up on a runaway teenager. But she rifled through her in-basket and decided she could cut some corners; there wasn't anything more pressing. Besides, there was a lot to go on. Leilani had last been seen driving off with Stanley Nobriga in his pickup the previous morning. It wouldn't be difficult to run down the plate number, and it shouldn't be much more difficult to locate the truck. While Elima was one of the larger Hawaiian islands, there really weren't many places for a vehicle to go where the police wouldn't spot it sooner or later.

From what Corky could make out, the Johnsons weren't exactly bosom friends with the Nobrigas, and they hadn't checked with them about either Leilani's or Stan's whereabouts. Corky made the call. No, Stan hadn't been home since the previous morning. No, they weren't much concerned. Stan sometimes left for days at a time. "He's three times seven, you know," Mr. Nobriga commented without being prompted.

Still wondering if the missing pair weren't just holed up on some deserted beach, recovering from a night of passion, Corky decided it might be best to check with her Lieutenant, Hank DeMello, before going off on what might be the wildest of goose chases.

Hank showed as little concern as Mr. Nobriga, though he raised his eyebrows when he heard that a fifteen year old girl had disappeared with a twenty-two year old male. "Get the word out on the plates. If they're spotted, we'll have them pulled over, and then let the Johnsons know she's O.K." He paused. "It won't hurt if you go out to see them. Better to be over-concerned about a runaway than to ignore their call and then find out something worse happened."

The Johnson house was a look-alike in the middle of an affordable housing subdivision. The lots were of minimal size, and the houses stood next to each other, cheek by jowl. The small lawns were covered with various assortments of plants, toys, and--in one case--a discarded vehicle. The Johnson home stood out because of its tidiness, with two large papaya trees and a small coconut palm providing shade, a closely cropped hedge, and a wooden-seated swing currently occupied by a pre-school child. Though she ignored Corky's greeting, the little girl fixed dark brown eyes on the visitor as she knocked at the door.

Mrs. Johnson was obviously distraught. Mr. Johnson was more angry than anything else. His pidgin accentuated the anger in his voice and expression.

"She nevah say where she go. It was befoh daylight. Stan stay outside in his pickup. No muffluh. He wake up da whole damn neighborhood. I wen' look out da bedroom window and see Leilani gettin' in da pickup."

Corky went through the usual routine with her notebook. The Johnsons had four children. The two boys and the other girl were all considerably older than Leilani. They had left home long ago, and the child on the swing was the elder daughter's parting gift to her parents. Corky thought that the pattern might very well repeat itself. She asked to see Leilani's room; as she'd expected, she didn't learn much from it. It was remarkably clean, undoubtedly thanks to Mrs. Johnson. The granddaughter shared the room, and there was nothing to indicate Leilani had planned a prolonged absence. A half-dozen photos revealed a rather plain girl, tall (her mother said she was inches taller than her own five-foot six), carrying at least twenty pounds more than she should have.

Giving what reassurance she could, Corky left the house with the conviction that Stan was going to have to explain a thing or two to his girlfriend's grim-faced father when they showed back up in a few days. She figured Leilani would catch her share of hell too--in fact, remembering her own wild adolescence, Corky bet she could predict, word for word, what both sides would have to say to each other.

The child, still rocking back and forth on her homemade swing, changed Corky's mind. "Auntie Lele go opihi picking with Stan," the girl announced, apropos of nothing. Corky immediately had visions of the young people groping around slippery algae-covered rocks hunting for the elusive and precious mollusks. Every year one or more opihi pickers fell victim to the Pacific's hungry maw. And if that could happen to the old timers who were well aware of the danger from a sudden large wave, what chance would someone like Leilani and Stan have?

As she pulled away from the curb, the thought occurred to her that that bit of information could help narrow the search. The accessible beaches where the opihi lurked were few. A patrol of the more popular hunting grounds could easily locate an abandoned pickup. As she reached for the phone, the familiar voice of the station operator calling Corky's number interrupted.

Following her acknowledgement, there was reassuring news. "Hi, Sarge. That pickup you're looking for is out at the airport, in the parking lot. Patrol Seven just called it in."

"Thanks. Tell him to wait, unless he's got something more pressing to do. I'll swing by there on my way back to the station."

Jerry Lance, the patrol car driver, waved her over to the end of the parking lot. "I don't think it's locked," he said. "I didn't try it."

Corky smiled. Jerry was always careful to follow regulations, even though this was one time when it hardly seemed necessary to do so.

The pickup was a dilapidated Chevy of indeterminate age, heavily pockmarked with what the high school car crowd referred to as Hawaii Rot--the inevitable result of metal exposed to the island's salt air. Though she didn't check, Corky was quite willing to accept Mr. Johnson's word that it lacked a muffler.

To show Jerry she was as concerned about regulations as he was, she used a handkerchief-covered hand to try the door. Jerry had been right, it was unlocked. And, as it turned out, he had been right to follow regulations. The dirty grey seatback and cushion had a large, fresh stain. To Corky's practiced eye, it was clearly blood. The disappearance of Leilani Johnson had now moved up to something potentially much more serious.

The scene of crime people moved in quickly. Once they'd finished, Corky supervised the towing of the vehicle to the police warehouse and then went off to report to Hank.

The Lieutenant was waiting. He pushed two folders across to Corky as she settled back into the garage-sale armchair serving as office furniture.

"Fast work," she commented, leafing through the file on Stanley Nobriga. "Assault, narcotics, illegal possession of firearms, contempt of court, abuse of a family member. . .he's covered a lot of ground in twenty-two years. No prison time, though. How come?"

"Plea bargain. He was in with two others on the assault charge. He copped first." Hank picked up a couple of other files. "When you're through with those two, take a look at the two who got time. Kelvin Amaral and Shelby Andrade. Amaral got out about a month ago. Andrade was just released from Kalani last week. I think this is serious enough for us to send someone out to find out what they've been up to."