Free J. Daniel Sawyer - Clarke Lantham 01 by And Then She Was Gone Page B

up on the couch with the laptop balanced on my knees and a well-earned bourbon, it was time for the evening’s entertainment.
    I queued up everything on the first card in date order, oldest to youngest.
    Most of ‘em were small, not more than five minutes each. When the first one started, with her sitting in her room like a refugee from YouTube, I was glad I’d grabbed the bourbon.
    But Nya wasn’t your run-of-the-mill video blogger. I wasn’t halfway through the first glass before I almost forgot I was holding it.
    She talked about her archery. About her friends. About the club they all got fake IDs to get into—some place called Bondage-a-Go-Go. She even talked about the heroin—called it a “rush.”
    “I don’t know. I don’t really like it. J says it’s top-flight shit, but you know…Makes me stupid. G says that after a while it’ll grow on me, but I think he’s crazy. I mean, yeah, sure, it makes me all hummy down…” A cat jumped onto her lap. She tittered. “But I’d rather pet my pussy, like this!” She held the cat face first into the camera lens and patted its head.
    The rest of it was like that. Disconnected whimsy, organized thoughts that flittered all over the place.
    There was something unreal about her. Have you ever watched a pack of puppies at play? Or two cats chasing each other around a house until even they can’t tell who was chasing who anymore? And their movement is almost perfect, like the dances in a Broadway play, but better?
    Her mind was like that.
    This wasn’t a depressed girl.
    I actually don’t think I’ve ever seen a better definition of the word “alive” than watching those videos. Yes, she was a risk junkie. Yes, she was chomping at the bit, chafing under her mother’s control. Yes, she seemed like a textbook example of the disorder Doctor Sternwood had described.
    But she was alive .
    And against my better judgment, I think I fell in love with her, just a little, watching her flittering every which way.
    I was going to find her. I had to.
    The phone jarred me around. I’d drifted off to sleep watching the videos.
    “Clarke Lantham, how can I help you.”
    “This is Serena Tam. You called me earlier about Nya Thales, you said it was an emergency.” I could hear a couple rambunctious kids in the background, chasing each other and shrieking at just the right frequency to make my ear bleed.
    “It is. Do you have an hour free? I need to ask you a few questions.”
    “Mr. Lantham—“
    “Clarke, please.”
    “Mr. Lantham,” well, familiarity wasn’t going to help with this one, “I can’t discuss clients business with anyone. Not to be rude, but who the hell are you?”
    “I’m a private investigator—Nya’s gone missing, and Mrs. Thales has retained me to help find her.”
    “Oh no. Nya? Do you have any idea…hey!” she covered the mouthpiece and shouted at her kids, “If you two don’t shut up and get your shoes on, we’re not going to the movie. I mean it, go now. Daddy will be here in a couple minutes and if you’re not ready, we’re not going.” She uncovered the mouth piece, “Sorry about that. You know how it is.”
    “Yeah,” I had nieces and nephews, thankfully long since grown out of that stage, “Look, could I get maybe a half hour of your time? Anything you can give me would help at this stage…”
    “I told you I can’t discuss it. But I hope you find her. She’s a good one.” The kids got noisy in the background again. “Sorry, I have to go.”
    She hung up.
    Caller ID caught her number. A reverse look-up gave me her address—Dublin. Hacienda was the closest cinema. It might not be the one she was going to, but it was worth a shot.
     

7:00 PM, Sunday
     
    Things which would have taken hours in the days of Humphrey Bogart playing Sam Spade take a few minutes today. Ms. Tam had her photo on her website—now I had it on my phone.
    I leaned up against the wall next to a poster for this summer’s gore-fest and pretended