Free Little Girls Lost by J. A. Kerley Page A

Sandhill modified his holster the next day.
    He bent to Velcro-strap the holster to his ankle, caught himself. I’m going to a cop shop, for crying out loud. He slipped the weapon back in the night-stand, locked up the apartment, and stopped into the restaurant. Marie was in the kitchen with a stirring-spoon in one hand, romance novel in the other.
    “I’m outta here for a few hours, Marie. We need anything from the market?”
    She studied Sandhill and wrinkled her nose. “You going in dressed like that?”
    “I thought about nudity, but clothes seemed more appropriate.”
    “You look like a po-liceman.”
    “I was, remember? They give you these clothes with your detective’s shield and you wear them for life. When you die they strip you and give the clothes to a new-made detective.”
    “You not a cop any more.”
    “And?”
    “Look at you. Going to that place and you somebody different.”
    “They’re just clothes, Marie.”
    She hmphed and turned away.
    Sandhill said, “Marie? Hello?”
    She kept her back to him. “They owning you again and you not out the door of your own place.”
    “Come on, Marie. Aren’t you being a bit sensitive? I mean—”
    Marie spun and gaveled the spoon against the pot. “You ain’t no cop no more, Conner Sandhill. You the Gumbo King, right? Like you all the time preaching at everybody else: To thine own self…”
    She let the words hang in the air.
    “Be true,” Sandhill completed, stripping the tie from his neck.
    “Late in the year for Mardi Gras, ain’t it, Carson?” Detective Roy Trent said, looking from a window to the parking lot.
    “What are you talking about?” Ryder said.
    “You won’t believe what fell off a float and’s heading this way,” Trent said, a grin bridging his outsized ears from lobe to lobe.
    A minute later Sandhill strode into the room wearing a purple vest trimmed in gold brocade. His felt crown was high and crisply ironed. He wore a black tee shirt and jeans with black Converse hightops slapping the floor.
    Mouths fell open. Ryder muttered, steering Sandhill away from the looks and down the hall to the meeting room.
    “Is there a reason for the get-up?”
    “Makes me feel regal.”
    “I was hoping we might pull this off without fanfare.”
    Sandhill said, “Ever read Castaneda?”
    Ryder paused; raised an eyebrow. He opened the door to the meeting room. “It’s been years. Why?”
    “Remember the sorcerer’s concept of controlled folly? Folly with a purpose?”
    Ryder was about to make a flip comment but saw Sandhill’s face was deadly serious. Ryder displayed the IN USE sign on the door and closed it behind them.
    “Would you like me to hang up your vest and crown?”
    “I’ll wait until the brass has been and gone,” Sandhill said, wiggling chairs until finding one without a squeak. He sat and pulled close the pile of reports.
    “I told them your condition,” Ryder said. “That they weren’t supposed to be here.”
    “Precisely why they will be,” Sandhill said, picking up a file and starting to read.
    Ryder sat quietly as Sandhill absorbed data, often grunting, occasionally asking questions. Some questions seemed penetrating, some childishly basic, others made no sense at all.
    The door opened without a knock and Ryder glanced up in irritation. Bidwell pushed through just ahead of Squill. Ainsley Duckworth was in the acting chief’s wake, the wet marbles of the commander’s eyes peering from under the heavy brow. He showed Ryder his teeth. Zemain brought up the rear, embarrassment written across his face.
    “Oh shit,” Squill said, counterbalancing feigned surprise with a smirk. “We didn’t know anyone was in here.”
    “Hi, Roland,” Sandhill said to Zemain.
    Ryder said, “Uh, we’re looking through some things here, Chief…”
    Squill ignored Ryder and looked at Sandhill as if he’d suddenly materialized.
    “Nice hat, Sandhill. Get it at a Halloween store?”
    “It’s a crown,” Sandhill said. “I