“That’s not how this works.Let me be clear up front—I work for the missing, in this case for Sabera.That’s the way I always do it.Family, friends, even the ones who invite me in.”I gesture at her.“Once I start asking questions, not everyone likes me so much anymore.That could grow to include you.”
Aliah tilts her chin defiantly.“I’m not afraid.”
“Excellent.”I set down my tea mug, rise to standing.“What do you think happened?Off the top of your head, what happened to your friend?”
“I…” A frown, that slight hesitation again.“I think maybe her husband.I can’t be sure, but then again, isn’t it always the husband?”
“Often seems that way.”But what makes her answer most interesting is the raw bravado behind it.It’s not clear to me that she believes what she’s saying as much as shewantsto believe what she’s saying.Basically, I’ve no sooner said yes than my initial contact is dissembling.
A smart person would walk away now.A sane person would get a real job, maybe even an apartment, and if not a healthy and stable relationship, at least a cat.
And yet I don’t even hesitate.I hold out my phone and request Sabera’s mobile number, apartment address, recent photo, and name of her employer.Aliah gratefully provides those details, then adds the name of the family’s caseworker and housing coordinator from the resettlement agency.
Just like that, I’m back to work.
My name is Frankie Elkin, and finding missing people is what I do.When the police have given up, when the public no longer remembers, when the media has never bothered to care, I start looking.For no money, no recognition, and most of the time, no help.
My mission has taken me all over the country, from inner-city neighborhoods to the wilds of Wyoming to even a brief stint in paradise.I’ve been cursed at, shot at, and nearly killed.I’ve watched people die.I’ve assisted with some of those deaths.
Clearly, I’m not a woman who learns from her mistakes.
Recently, I took a long-deserved hiatus to recover from a particularly horrific case, spending the time with a truly amazing guy.It was so good, it was even great.Yet still, when my phone rang…
From the very beginning, he whispered against my neck,I knew you weren’t the staying kind.
Because that’s also who I am.A woman with an inherent separateness I’ll never be able to shake.So that no matter how hard I try, I will always be the outsider looking in.Some people understand real life.Then there’s me.
A person who searches for the missing.
And who will always be the first to disappear.
CHAPTER 2
FIRST ORDER OF BUSINESS WHENbeginning a case: figure out employment and lodging in whatever city is about to become my temporary new home.Walking down the sidewalk from Aliah’s apartment with all my worldly possessions—a brown leather messenger bag and a small rolling suitcase—I squint against the blazing desert sun and do my best to get my bearings.
In the less than twenty-four hours I’ve been in Tucson, I’ve already figured out a few things.One, that whole “at least it’s dry heat” is a load of hooey.Mid-October, the mercury is still topping ninety, and I’m already sweating profusely after walking only three blocks.Even if it’s slightly better than the tropical rain forest environment of my last venture, searing versus sweltering is hardly a consolation.
Two, it’s sprawling.The city itself seems to stretch on forever.Long, expansive avenues; short, squat buildings; endlessly unfurling sidewalks lined with palm trees, mesquite, and palo verde.The green contrasts nicely with one of the other main features ofTucson—it’s brown.Brown adobe houses with brown scorched-earth yards encircled by brown towering mountains.If I were more poetic, maybe I’d note the pinkish-red highlights or soft gray undertones, but I’m too tired and thirsty to care.
My final sad observation: the homeless epidemic has spread here as well, given the number of unkempt individuals planted in the middle of the broad avenues, begging for money at traffic lights.Most appear on the younger side, with the gaunt, haunted look of addicts.
I don’t judge—I’ve spent enough years in AA to know better than to take my own sobriety for granted.Speaking for myself, I fight my demons on a daily, if not hourly, basis.
Which brings me back to the matter of finding a job.Ironically, my one employable skill is bartending.Maybe not the best choice for a recovering alcoholic, but being around booze isn’t a major trigger for me.Getting up each morning is.
I make my way to a strip mall anchored by a massive grocery store.I’m grateful to step into air-conditioning, even if it has me shivering in a matter of seconds.I’m even more grateful to discover a local rag with a classified section.
I pause long enough to shrug on my worn green army jacket and purchase a bottle of water.Then I get to work.
Aliah hadn’t been kidding; the rents I see listed are high and higher.I’m not exactly flush with cash.Taking into account that most reputable places would require first month and last month rent plus a security deposit, and I’m officially priced out of this market.
I switch to studying employment options.Good news, looks like every bar, restaurant, and hotel is desperate for workers.Which should be to my advantage, except doing some basic math on what I’d make in a month still leaves me in the red when itcomes to housing.Yet another reoccurring variable I encounter across more and more of the country.
Fortunately, being a nomad of some experience, I know a few tricks—search for gigs that include housing.None jump out in the want ads, but no matter.I fire up my prepaid cell phone and spend some precious minutes visiting two websites that specialize in such exchanges—labor for rent.
One immediately jumps out at me.House/pet-sitting duties for one month, lodging included.With nothing to lose, I hit dial.
“Hello?”The voice on the other end is male, sounds younger than I would’ve expected, and is definitely frazzled.
