Free Underground by Kat Richardson Page B

accesses.”
     
     
    “And you’re thinking that the ones who disappeared were also in the underground tunnels or near access points?” I asked.
     
     
    “Yeah. But I’m not sure. If we ask around, we might find out.”
     
     
    Even in the sub-freezing cold, there was a line on the sidewalk in front of the Bread of Life Mission. Most of the people in the line were men, or seemed to be—it was a little difficult to tell under the layers of clothes everyone wore against the cold. Quinton left me for a moment and went up to the front to talk to a man at the door. He came back shaking his head.
     
     
    “He won’t let us in. We’ll have to talk to the people in line and try to catch the rest another time.”
     
     
    We started near the front, where we found Zip listening and nodding along with a woman dressed head to toe in black. She looked about forty-five, Hispanic, thin in the ropy, muscular way of people who’ve done manual labor most of their lives. Her clothes were clean and reasonably new, and a woolly hat covered most of her dark hair. She seemed oblivious of the rank odors that hung around the men near her, even in the cold.
     
     
    “. . . on Wednesday,” she was saying as we approached. “And you’re coming this time, Zip.”
     
     
    Zip bobbed his head. “Yes’m.”
     
     
    She looked up at Quinton and me as we stopped beside to them. “Quinton! You can help me. We’re having a vigil on Wednesday in front of the Justice Center from one to three. We need leafleteers—we have two leaflets this time, so we need plenty of help.”
     
     
    “I don’t do leaflets,” Quinton said.
     
     
    The woman shook her head in sharp negation. “Nonono. You get to be my cattle prod. Some of these guys aren’t very reliable,” she added, giving a hint of a smile as she elbowed Zip in the ribs, “but they may show up if they’re reminded by someone they trust.”
     
     
    “Oh.” Quinton nodded. “OK, Rosa. I’ll play big brother.”
     
     
    She looked surprised. “Well, OK, then.” Rosa turned her gaze on me and I felt like I was being sized up. “Who’s this?”
     
     
    Quinton put his hand behind my shoulder. “This is Harper Blaine.” He caught my eye and gave a small smile, tipping his head. “Harper, this is Rosa—Rosaria Cabrera.”
     
     
    Rosa put out her mittened hand and took mine in a quick, hard grip. “I’m with Women in Black. We organize silent vigils to remember the homeless who’ve died on the street.”
     
     
    “Does that happen a lot?” I asked, retrieving my hand.
     
     
    Her face went stern. “More than you want to know. Winter’s always the worst, and this one is worse than that.”
     
     
    “Who’s your vigil for on Wednesday?”
     
     
    “The dead in general, of course, but recently we lost Jan and Go-cart—Chaim Jankowski and Robert Cristus.”
     
     
    I glanced at Quinton. “Go-cart was the guy in the train tunnel, ” he said, and then he looked at Rosa. “Harper found him.”
     
     
    Rosa’s gaze became very sharp and she shot a look between us as if she knew the truth of the matter. “How is it you found Go-cart? ” she asked me.
     
     
    “I’m a private investigator,” I replied. “I was looking for someone else, but it was Go-cart—Robert—I found.”
     
     
    “Who were you looking for?”
     
     
    I pulled a name out of Nan Grover’s list. “One J. Walker Eddings Jr. A witness in an upcoming court case.”
     
     
    Rosa shook her head. “Don’t know him—at least not by that name.”
     
     
    “Do you know if Go-cart had any family? What’s going to happen to the body?” I asked. “They know the cause of death yet?”
     
     
    Rosa sighed. “They don’t tell us any of that. We don’t even know if they’re investigating his death except to relieve the railroad of any fault. Usually guys like Jan and Go-cart just end up in an anonymous grave with nothing but a number on the plot or as a box of ashes in a file