Badge by K.L. Savage
I’m finally getting to do what I love. There’s just one tiny issue that I haven’t taken care of yet. I didn’t get Reaper’s permission to do this, but I don’t really care. I need to do this. For me. For my mental health. I’m more than a guy who can sit behind the computer and research shit. My brain is dead doing the same damn thing every day.
I want to do what I’m good at.
So I started my own private investigation firm called Walker Investigations. I got my PI license, set up my own email for the business, opened a P.O. Box, and even made business cards.
I’m so excited about my business cards, but I’m bummed that I can’t show anyone. Back when I was with the LVPD, Reaper punched me in the face and made me choose.
The Club or my badge.
I picked the Club. These guys are my family. And I will always choose family—but I don’t think it should have come down to that choice. It isn’t okay to take something I love away because he didn’t like the outcome of something. Reaper can be a hothead. He is a good Prez, but there are so many times I want to put him in his place for overreacting.
Or maybe I’m being an ass about it. I’ve been told more than once that I’m grumpy, but I don’t know how I can be too much of an asshole. I didn’t see anyone else volunteering to be fucking Santa for Christmas last year, then getting held hostage and tied to a chair with lights while a bunch of little kids ran around screaming.
I grin to myself as I drive to my first client’s house.
That was a good day.
I come to a slow stop in front of a nice suburban home. Trimmed hedges, perfect garden, too big of a house, and a family SUV in the driveway. I open the file I created on the case when I see I have a few minutes to kill. I want to make sure I know everything before I knock on their door and make them tell me everything they know while I search their house.
Morgan Lillard. 20 years old. Nine months pregnant. Missing for twelve hours.
There’s a common misconception that you have to wait twenty-four hours before reporting someone missing, but I’m glad these people came to me before it got to that point. If someone is missing for longer than usual, it needs to be addressed. Every minute counts.
And Morgan being nine months pregnant tells me she wouldn’t be gone by herself for so long.
Knowing I’m not going to get more information by just sitting here, I tuck the file under my arm and open the truck door. The scorching Vegas sun is hot on my face. I throw on my aviators and my boots hit the ground as I walk up the Lillards’ driveway, passing bright pink potted flowers.
The door is painted blue and has a screen covering so instead of knocking, I ring the bell, the loud ding sounding happy in a miserable time. I let out a breath and can’t help but feel nervous. This is my first gig and I’m just as excited as I am anxious.
I’ll never admit this out loud, but I kind of want to puke. That wouldn’t be a good first impression, would it? This is a five-thousand-dollar job. I don’t want to fuck it up.
The door opens with a creak to reveal a middle-aged woman. She has long brown hair with strands of grey and a few wrinkles around her red puffy eyes. The tip of her nose is red from rubbing it with the tissue she has balled in her hand.
I lift up my sunglasses to the top of my head and offer my hand for her to shake.
“Ma’am. I’m Forrest Walker of Walker Investigations. I’m here to talk about your daughter, Morgan.”
“Yes, thank you so much for coming. Thank you,” she says, sounding desperate for anyone to listen to her. “I’m Marla.” She introduces herself and a silver-haired man comes up behind her, a stern yet sad look on his face. He is stoic, but on the inside, is obviously falling apart. “And this is my husband, Victor.”
“I’d say it’s nice to meet you both, but under the circumstances, I’m sorry I have to meet you at all.” She invites me in and I walk left, heading straight toward the living room. It’s nice. There’s a large, red Victorian couch against the wall with a matching loveseat to the left. A coffee table sits strategically between the two with coasters waiting to be used. There are pictures everywhere of Morgan, from the time she was a baby to when she graduated high school, and then more from college. “She graduated early? She’s only twenty,” I notice, staring at the proud smile on Morgan’s face while she wears the blue cap and gown.
“She skipped a grade. She’s very smart,” her mom explains. “This isn’t like her. She hasn’t checked her phone. She hasn’t answered our messages. It goes straight to voicemail. We’ve called the hospitals to see if she’s gone into labor, but we haven’t heard anything. We can’t find her and she’s smart, Mr. Walker. Our girl is smart. She wouldn’t go off and do something so reckless, please,” she sobs, and her husband begins to rub soothing circles against her back. He places his chin on top of her head and blinks quickly, holding back tears.
“I understand, Mrs. Lillard. It sounds uncharacteristic of her.” I click my pen and open her file where I keep a notepad, then begin to take notes. “Where is the father? Is he involved?”
“No. She’s always been a good girl and is—but she got a little wild in Cancun, had a fling, and when she got home, she found out she was pregnant. She doesn’t even know the father’s name. He doesn’t know and she has no way of getting ahold of him. It was a one-night stand.”
No judgments. Women should be able to have their one-night stands just like men do. I nod, scribbling as I go. “So you don’t think the father found out?”
“No,” Mr. Lillard shakes his head. “That’s impossible. I know it isn’t much, but she told us everything. They were both in Cancun on vacation, didn’t exchange numbers or names. It was a drunk night.”
“I understand.”
“They happen.”
I lift my head. “I’m sorry?”
“Drunk, fun nights. They happen. Our little girl wasn’t—”
I hold up my hand to stop her. “Ma’am, I’m not judging. At all. That’s not my job. I’m just trying to get the facts to help find her, okay? I have no room to talk about drunken nights. When I was younger and in my partying days, I had a few one-night stands too. It isn’t uncommon. I don’t know if that makes you feel better about me or not,” I grumble, realizing I might have been a bit too honest.
‘Partying days’ might undersell it a bit. After what happened, I found solace the only way I knew how—by joining the Ruthless Kings down in Oklahoma and immersing myself in all the drugs, sex, and partying they did. I kept it on the down-low during my day job with the police department, but there were definitely more than a few nights that I woke up still drunk from the night before, some random cut-slut in my bed whose name I didn’t even know.
“No, actually, that makes us feel better. The cops frowned when they got the story and they won’t take us seriously but…” She places her hand on her heart and her lips pinch as another wave of tears falls. “I feel it, Mr. Walker. Something is wrong. A mother knows. And I know something is wrong with my baby.”
A mother’s intuition is one I hold a bitter pill against because of what happened with Amber, but I don’t doubt that there are good mothers out there who really do know when something is wrong.
“And there is no boyfriend? Girlfriend? Does she plan on giving the baby up for adoption? I’m just trying to make a connection.”
“No, none of that. We are ready for our grandchild. We just want them home.”
“I understand, Mr. Lillard. Where did she go today? For her to leave the house at nine months pregnant alone is unusual.”
“She had an appointment at the doctor. My husband had to work this morning and I had a migraine. Morgan insisted she would be fine to go alone. I knew I should have gone with her. God, I’ll never forgive myself.”
“Where is her doctor located?” I ask.
“I have the address on my phone. I’ll send it to you now.” Mr. Lillard’s hands are shaking as he tries to type on the screen. It takes longer than usual, but my phone eventually beeps.
“Thank you. Can I see her room? I just want to look around and see if there is anything that will take me elsewhere. Maybe she went somewhere she didn’t tell you about and wrote it down. I need to look everywhere,” I tell them.
“Of course, absolutely. Whatever you need,” she says, scurrying away from her husband’s side. “Follow me.” She dabs her nose and walks around the staircase. “Her room used to be upstairs, but we didn’t want to risk her falling.”
“That was a good thought,” I say, following the petite woman into a room on the right.
“This is Morgan’s room now.” Mrs. Lillard flips on the light and an open, fashionable room greets me. The walls are painted a pale yellow and there are white curtains with lace draping over them. The crib is next to the bed along with boxes of diapers stacked on top of each other.
It’s hard to stop the memories from flooding back. She doesn’t have nearly enough diapers. I remember how many I went through, but I only got to enjoy that for the first two months before… just before.
It’s clean. There aren’t random receipts lying around or books scattered about. I decide to browse and open up a few drawers, invading her privacy as I search through each one thoroughly. I’m coming up empty. It’s just maternity shirts and pants.
I call it quits on the dresser, heading to the nightstand. A quick look through it only reveals tissues and pens.
What kind of girl only keeps tissues and pens in her nightstand?
Something out of the corner of my eye glitters against the light and I turn my head to see something peeking from under the mattress.
“Is this necessary?” the mother asks, watching me pry through her daughter’s belongings.
“I’m afraid so, ma’am. I’ll make sure to leave everything as I found it.” I lift the mattress and notice a small leather-bound book.
A journal.
“Were you aware she kept a journal?”
Mrs. Lillard shakes her head. “No. I didn’t know. We always respect her privacy.”
“Absolutely, but I’ll need to break that privacy rule, okay?” Luckily, the journal doesn’t have a lock, just a leather tie that hooks around it. I tug on the tie and open it, feeling like a real bastard for having to read a woman’s innermost thoughts.
I skim quickly, not wanting to focus on the baby kicks and wishes that the father knew. I’m looking for a place or possibly an appointment time that she didn’t want anyone else to know about it.
This room is very clean and in order. I don’t know. Something doesn’t feel right. I remember when Haley was about to give birth. Our house was a mess. There was baby stuff everywhere. There didn’t seem to be a place for all of it, but for some reason, this room feels more like a guest room.
I’m not doubting her parent’s love, but I am doubting whether Morgan wanted this baby. This room feels too unsure. I take a break from the journal and head to the closet, narrowing my eyes when I only see a few pieces of baby clothing.
Yeah, even I know from the ol’ ladies at the clubhouse that the closet gets filled up with baby clothes and the parents’ clothes end up elsewhere.
I continue to flip through the journal and, on the last page, finally see something that catches my eye.
Going to see Mr. Zachary tomorrow. I need options.
And the date this was written was yesterday.
“Do you know who Mr. Zachary is?”
Mrs. Lillard’s eyes widen with surprise, and she shakes her head. “No, I’m sorry. I’ve never heard of him before.”
“Okay, I’m going to go check out a few places and hopefully retrace her steps. I’ll call with any news, okay?”
“Thank you, Mr. Walker. Thank you for taking us seriously. Even if we have no reason to worry, it speaks volumes that you want to try anyway.”
Not knowing what to say to that, I dip my chin to show my appreciation and then walk out of the room, giving Mr. Lillard a firm handshake on the way out. Without any other goodbyes, I walk outside and pass the pink potted flowers again on my way to my truck.
When I’m safe inside the vehicle, the first thing I do is search the words Zachary and babies. It’s what my mind is conjuring up.
And the first hit is Peter Zachary, a representative at the local adoption agency.
Yeah, my gut was leaning toward that. “Looks like I have someone to go see,” I mumble with smug satisfaction.
I feel like I’m already on a good pace to close this case.
I’m so fucking excited, and I shouldn’t be. I want to find this woman and bring her home safely.
“Next time, Mr. Zachary.” I place the truck in drive and notice Mrs. Lillard looking out her window, watching me leave.
Mr. Zachary better have some answers for me.
