Pretty Little Things. Jilliane Hoffman

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      Obviously, with 2,185 kids reported missing every day, not every face got slapped on a milk carton and not every kid got his or her physical description launched on traffic message boards across the nation via an AMBER Alert. The system would be critically overloaded within minutes, and people would quickly grow desensitized and indifferent to the plight of yet another kid gone AWOL. AMBERs were reserved for the most urgent of situations. To have one issued, a cop had to meet a strict, three-pronged criteria: 1) a reasonable belief the child was abducted; 2) a reasonable belief he or she was at imminent risk for serious bodily injury or death; and, 3) sufficient descriptive information about the child, the suspect, and the abduction so that a public broadcast would actually help find the kid. Bobby tapped his notepad. He didn’t have enough to meet any one of the prongs with Elaine Emerson. He just had that familiar, heavy feeling in his gut.

      Somewhere in between the panic-mode AMBER and the runaway code-word ‘missing juvi’ entry in NCIC was a Missing Child Alert. In cases where you didn’t have an abduction, but you had enough information to believe the child was in imminent danger, you could request a Missing Child Alert. While it didn’t spark the same urgent, national ‘Oh Shit!’ response as an AMBER, it did trigger notifications to the local media, neighborhood businesses and community law enforcement agencies. But again, other than his agita, Bobby had no concrete reason to believe Elaine was in danger. An alert would definitely be a stretch. And based on the info they had right now, it would be much easier to just OK the missing juvi report that Coral Springs had put into NCIC, grab his golf clubs and call it a day.

      ‘Veso just showed up,’ Zo said, popping his head back into the room from the hall, where he’d disappeared for the past ten minutes. ‘Fucking numb-nut got lost.’

      ‘Obviously a great detective,’ Bobby replied, not bothering to look up from the screen.

      ‘Be nice.’

      ‘Fuck that. You be nice. I don’t need a pet. Or an understudy.’

      Zo shook his head. Diplomacy was a tough tightrope to walk, and he was a shitty acrobat. ‘You almost done here?’ he tried. ‘I got tickets to the Dolphins game at four.’

      ‘Just writing down a few things. I’m gonna try talking to some of these friends while I’m out here. And the step, too. See what the hell’s up with him.’

      ‘OK, bro. You’re the expert.’

      Bobby couldn’t resist. ‘Can you tell your boss that, please?’

      Zo stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. He waited a long moment before he finally spoke. ‘I don’t know how you deal with,’ he started, looking around, ‘this shit every day. Every fucking day. Let me be honest with you, Bobby, my friend. I don’t know how you do it. Especially after Katy. I don’t know how you can fucking function. It’s like you’re locking yourself in a freaking torture room every second of every day and forcing yourself to look at all the shit on the walls. It ain’t healthy.’ He sat down on the edge of the bed and waited till the pregnant silence caused his friend to finally look over at him. ‘None of these cases, none of them, have a happy ending, man. None of them. You know that better than anyone. You bring ’em home, Shep, that’s true, all these … these kids. Dead or alive you bring ’em home, but what kind of life is that? I mean, what kind of career is that? ’Cause it’s never a happy ending, even when it’s supposed to be. And you know it. It’s just the beginning of years of therapy for those who do make it home. I’ve worked a lot of squads, you know, in my years, a lot of different cases. Violent Crime, Terrorism, Narcotics, Organized Crime. You name it, and I’ve probably worked it. And I’m not saying they’re easy, but you know, when you’re working something like homicides – it sucks, there’s blood and brains and bad shit – but at least you know the guy you’re working for is dead. I mean, there’s never any hope of finding him alive. It’s depressing and all, and it’s a dead body, yeah, yeah, yeah, but you never get that fucking hope ripped out of your chest, like you do in these kid cases. Over and over and over. What I’m saying is, why don’t you look at the changes Foxx wants to make as a way out? As a long-overdue, I don’t know … vacation? A chance to move on? Ain’t nothing wrong with pushing some paper and taxiing governors around when they come to town. I know you don’t want it. Hell, we all know – the director included and every suit in Tallahassee, too, as well as the freaking Fibbies – we all know that no one else can do this job as good as you. You’re the best at what you do, Shep. But – well, fuck the Vesos of the world and Foxx if you think they’re trying to squeeze you out – but, for LuAnn, for your own sanity, let someone else try, man.’

      Bobby said nothing. The whoops and hollers from the skateboard contest filled the strained silence. ‘Look, you brief the guy if you want to,’ he replied finally. ‘I already know he’s a fuck-up and I don’t want him in here.’ Then he turned his attention back to the screen.

      Zo let out a slow breath. ‘Whatever. I’ll meet you outside when you’re done.’

      After Zo walked out, Bobby leaned back in the desk chair and rubbed his tired eyes.

       Not all of them. I don’t bring them all home, Zo. And that’s the problem. That’s why I don’t sleep any more. I don’t bring them all home and we both know it …

      He flipped open his cell and dialed.

      ‘Missing Children Information Clearinghouse. Travis Hall.’

      ‘Hey there, Travis, it’s Bobby Dees down in Miami.’

      ‘Hey, Agent Dees. I haven’t heard from you in a while. I thought you wasn’t working these cases no more, after, you know, well, after what, um, happened …’ Travis’s voice had slowed and stumbled off, like he’d just gotten the memo that it wasn’t such a hot idea to be saying what he was saying.

      ‘Don’t believe everything you hear, Travis.’ Bobby sat up. ‘I’m still alive and well down here in the Conch Republic.’

      ‘Glad to hear it. You doing OK, Bobby?’

      Bobby ignored that question, because any idiot with half a brain and knowledge of the hell he’d been through the past year wouldn’t have asked it in the first place. ‘Listen, Travis,’ he said dismissively, fingering the two pictures of Elaine Emerson he had printed out on the desk. Before and After. The Geek and the Lolita. Stretch or not, he’d learned over the years to listen to his gut. It was the one partner that never let him down. ‘I’m gonna need you to put out a Missing Child Alert on one Elaine Louise Emerson. White female, date of birth 8/27/96 …’

       17

      ‘So you don’t have any idea where she might be?’ Bobby asked the skinny girl with the mop of wet, dark blonde curls. Just past the sky-blue foyer where he stood, an arched entryway led into the home’s kitchen. Plastic grocery bags were piled on the countertop and he could see something was boiling on the stove. The house smelled like meatloaf and onions.

      ‘Nuh-uh,’ the teen replied, rubbing her head with a Scooby-Doo beach towel. The mirror image standing next to her in the same exact bathing suit and shorts just shook her head.

      ‘Her mother called here last night at almost eleven o’clock looking for her,’ Mrs Weber added with a frown. ‘I told Debbie I didn’t think the girls had seen Elaine in a couple of weeks. They were at their dad’s all weekend and they had a swim meet this morning. They just got home.’ She rubbed the shoulders of either Melissa or Erica. Bobby couldn’t tell the difference. ‘Do you think she ran away? Is that it?’

      ‘Do you think that might be the case?’ Bobby countered.

      Mrs Weber shrugged. ‘Elaine’s mother parents differently than me, let’s just say that. Her older sister is a mess, you know. A mess. Drugs and boys. That’s why I don’t like the girls over there. There’s no supervision. Elaine is very sweet, but …’