[center][b]Angel Eyes Part III[/b][/center] [b]Seattle[/b] [b]2009[/b] I walked the halls of the Maddox mansion with a security guard traveling in my wake. Bowron was downstairs with Charles and Carrie Maddox, along with their pet muscle Wideman. My partner and I had consulted each other in private before taking statements from the parents of Celeste Maddox. Bowron and I agreed on very little in most regards, but on this case we came to the same conclusion: we were both out of our depth. Kidnapping was and is a federal crime that automatically gets handed over to the FBI. So why were two Seattle PD detectives given the case? Charles and his wife claimed it was in the name of discretion. They were calling favors with the local police to let them deal with it first. If they called the FBI, that package would include an army of agents, locking down the sleepy little gated community, helicopters buzzing over their estate, the whole megillah. “That’s true,” Bowron had said. “But they have the resources we don’t. All those G-Men messing up your neighborhood’s peace and quiet? They’re gonna find your daughter faster and more efficiently than we can.” I left Bowron to continue his sales pitch and headed upstairs to see what I could find in the way of impressions. The house should have come with its own GPS system, but the security man who tailed me was nice enough to point out where the Maddox girl’s room would be. The hallways were lined with family photos, mostly of the two children in the home. Photos showed Celeste’s progression from a newborn up until the twelve year old she was today. Her younger brother Caleb had his life charted in the same way, only with photos of him playing sports instead of participating in beauty pageants. A photo of Caleb performing at what looked to be a piano recital made me pause for a moment before moving on. What nobody, not even my partner, knew was what I was really up to that night. At that point I had been a cop for over twenty years, first LA and then Seattle, and I had earned a reputation as one of the best detectives around. Manhunter, they called me, because I could always find my target. And that was because of my ability: I could hear the thoughts of others. I once read that it was called telepathy, and I used it to great effect over the course of my career. Downstairs while Charles Maddox told us how Celeste had gone missing, I had scanned his mind for any signs that he was lying. I also listened to the thoughts of his wife and security team. Nothing. “Her room is right there,” my babysitter said, pointing a finger to a door we were approaching. I used my shirt sleeve to push open the door and avoid leaving fingerprints behind. The room was typical preteen girl, almost to the point of cliche. Pink walls with popstar posters covering them, stuffed animals on a bed, a wall of trophies and ribbons. As far as insights into Celeste Maddox and her life went, it was lacking in substance. That was why I decided to open my mind up to thoughts. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I could hear the thoughts of the security guard, wondering what I was doing. I could also hear the buzz of the entire household, dozens of mental voices creating a cacophony. I expanded further out into the neighborhood and beyond. The collective thoughts of Seattle roared through my ears and I sifted through them until: “There,” I said under my breath. Celeste Maddox’s mind, less than a mile away and racing with fright. She was in the dark and panting. A bright light and then. Pain. A deep pain unlike anything I had ever felt. The sounds of her screams reverberated through my brain. I felt my knees collapse, just before I passed out, I realized that Celeste’s screams had become my own. ----- [b]Skid Row[/b] [b]Now[/b] I walked down the cracked sidewalks with Caleb Maddox’s folder tucked under my arm Even though the area seemed deserted I could feel the watchful eyes of people on me from the dark alleys and hiding spots this part of town provided. Every city, even one as seemingly well-off and peaceful as Seattle, has a place like this. It’s a refuge for those people who our society has overlooked, the people don’t benefit from Amazon’s massive tax breaks, people who are firmly reminded that the Starbucks bathrooms are for paying customers only. They weren’t all drug addicts, and they weren’t all unemployed criminals, but I knew from my time as a cop that enough suspect people lived down here for Caleb to have at least passed through here in the past. And speaking of cops, I had to assume the wide berth the Night People had given me was due to my appearance. A middle-aged black man wearing a blazer and slacks screamed police. They gave me a wide berth back when I was a cop as well. It had been a long time since I’d last ventured into Skid Row, 2007 at least. I was still working missing person the last time I came to visit my friend. These places were always migratory, but I was hoping against hope that he had stuck around. It was a bit unbelievable to find that same old bus bench with a rusty RCA sign leaning against it forming a raggedy lean-to. Around here it was the equivalent to a penthouse. I rapped on the sign and waited. “Who the fuck--” He stopped short when he saw me looking down at him. Chunky Edwards had put a lot of miles on his tires since I’d last seen him ten years ago, haggard with a drawn up face and long grey hair, but still being alive after all that time was a victory in and of itself. “Shiiiiiit,” he said, flashing a mouth full of jagged teeth. “I remember you. Detective Jones. Probably chief of police now or some shit. You don’t write, you don’t call, you don’t offer me a job, and you don’t stop by for my wine and cheese parties.” "I’m not a cop anymore, Chunky.” I reached into my pocket and fished out the squat candybar with the silver wrapper and CHUNKY written across it. “But I bet some things never change. Still got the sweet tooth? ” “Do I shit in a bucket?” he asked before snatching the candy from my hand. “Don’t answer that.” Chunky started into the bar as best as he could with his teeth and got out of his makeshift home. The two of us sat on the rickety bench in silence while he ate. “I’m glad you’re alive,” I finally said. Chunky was busy licking chocolate from his fingers. “I know living rough like this isn’t anybody’s idea of safe.” “Yeah,” he said with gleaming eyes. “But it’s a trip, man. See I’m actually a billionaire who pretends to be homeless for fucking fun.” “I can put you up in a hotel for a week,” I said. “Hot water and everything. I just need help with something.” He looked me over with a quizzical eye. I noticed that he was wearing a faded and torn beanie that proclaimed the Seattle Seahawks as Super Bowl XLIX Champions. “I thought you said you weren’t a cop.” “I’m not. I’m just trying to find someone. A kid. Just barely a kid.” I flipped open the folder and showed him Caleb’s mugshot. He looked confused for a moment before he started to nod rapidly. “Party Man,” he said with a laugh. “Yeah, I know him. Seen him around the way.” “Why did you call him that? Party Man." “Because he’s always looking to party. Got this guy with him, hanger-on type with his head so far up the boy’s ass, he’d break his neck if this kid took a corner too sharp.” “By party you mean trying to cop?” “Yeah,” said Chunky. “Always chasing around looking for some pills or dope.” “You know where they get it from when they get it?” “Man, I don’t fuck with them drugs,” he said, pointing to his head and smiling wide, showing me a mouth of missing and rotten teeth smeared in chocolate. “That shit rots your brain, detective.” “You said he has a friend with him. What does he look like?” He shrugged. “I don’t know, just a young white kid with dark hair. As interchangeable as the picture you just showed me. I know his friend is always trying to get the girls around here to blow him, trying to trade drugs for BJs and pussy.” “Do you know any of the dealers around here, Chunky? What about the girls?” Chunky took a long pause before sniffing and answering. “Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. I’ll help you out with this boy because he ain’t one of us, but if word gets around I’m a snitch… look, man. You’re just visiting, okay? I’ve got to live here.” “I understand,” I said as I took another Chunky bar from my pocket and passed it to him. “Now about that motel.” “No thanks,” he said as he started on his second bar. With his free hand he slapped the metal sign. “Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home. You should come by next week, my book group is discussing [i]Breakfast of Champions[/i] by Kurt Vonnegut. And afterwards we're gonna rummage through the garbage for empties.”