couldn't form the words.
“We shouldn't go jumping to conclusions just yet.”
“I've had this awful feeling ever since we talked earlier. I even had to go into the bathroom a little while ago to throw up. If Cartwright doesn't … we promised each other we'd always be there … “
I said nothing. Being a private investigator may sound glamorous to some. The truth is, a lot of the time it seems only incrementally different from picking up trash for a living. Right now the garbage detail looked pretty good.
“You believe in prayer, Mr. Pavlicek?”
“Sure,” I said.
“I'm praying that God won't take Cartwright from me.”
A cold wind swirled the trees along the street. A hunter's moon became visible for a brief moment through a break in the clouds.
“Me too,” I said.
We hung up and I went on with my vigil.
C'mon, Frank. Charlottesville is not New York or L.A.—not even Atlanta or Washington, D.C. Shouldn't be that hard to find a missing auto. If it's still in town, that is.
I checked out the areas around Park Street and Locust Avenue, then shot down the 250 Bypass to River Road. It was well after ten by now. Traffic was light. I looped back up on High Street to Martha Jefferson Hospital, cruising through the surrounding streets and lots. I was finishing up a check of the hospital's parking garage when it occurred to me I'd forgotten the two parking garages at the larger university medical center across town. I drove back down High Street to Preston, cut across to West Main, and began trolling in the direction of University Corner.
This was a transitional part of town, one that city planners envisioned would one day serve as an attractive bridge between the college and downtown. The vision had been at least partially realized. Between the shells of older structures and vacant lots with their sparkles of broken glass, there were a couple of new hotels and a thriving, if eclectic, strip of eateries. The city had recently upgraded the bridge that crossed the railroad with attractive lighting, and the railroad station itself had undergone a major renovation—one of the buildings now housed a trendy restaurant.
A minute or so later the medical center popped into view on my left. I entered the first garage and started my search.
Ten minutes later, still nothing. Five levels of vehicles, one older Maxima, but nothing remotely resembling the Drummonds’ rental car. Maybe Cartwright Drummond had left the state. Maybe her father was having her followed, like her sister, and for some reason she'd decided to go underground in a Third World country. I moved on to the primary-care-center garage.
I was cruising along the second level, momentarily distracted by a minivan backing out of a space, when a flash of dark blue up ahead on the left caught my attention. Another Maxima. In the amber light it gleamed almost black. I took in a deep breath as I came abreast of the vehicle. D.C. plates.
Checked the tag number. Bingo.
I sat there letting the truck idle for a moment, hardly believing my luck. Maybe there was a simple explanation to this whole affair after all. The vehicle appeared to be clean and unoccupied, just the way Cassidy and Cartwright had probably rented it. I scanned up and down the row of cars. Nothing unusual. Except for the van, the garage was quiet at this time of night—hospital visiting hours were over. Many of the spaces now sat empty. I reached across and grabbed my four-cell and, just in case, my .357 out of the glove box. Strapped on the weapon and stepped from the truck.
Nothing but the sound of my own engine, the cold and the sweet smell of my own exhaust, and the haze of steam blowing from some kind of vents on the roof of the hospital across the street. I slipped on a pair of leather gloves and carefully approached the rental car. In no way did it seem out of order—the inside was empty and the doors were all locked. I considered trying to break in, took a look around, and decided I
“We shouldn't go jumping to conclusions just yet.”
“I've had this awful feeling ever since we talked earlier. I even had to go into the bathroom a little while ago to throw up. If Cartwright doesn't … we promised each other we'd always be there … “
I said nothing. Being a private investigator may sound glamorous to some. The truth is, a lot of the time it seems only incrementally different from picking up trash for a living. Right now the garbage detail looked pretty good.
“You believe in prayer, Mr. Pavlicek?”
“Sure,” I said.
“I'm praying that God won't take Cartwright from me.”
A cold wind swirled the trees along the street. A hunter's moon became visible for a brief moment through a break in the clouds.
“Me too,” I said.
We hung up and I went on with my vigil.
C'mon, Frank. Charlottesville is not New York or L.A.—not even Atlanta or Washington, D.C. Shouldn't be that hard to find a missing auto. If it's still in town, that is.
I checked out the areas around Park Street and Locust Avenue, then shot down the 250 Bypass to River Road. It was well after ten by now. Traffic was light. I looped back up on High Street to Martha Jefferson Hospital, cruising through the surrounding streets and lots. I was finishing up a check of the hospital's parking garage when it occurred to me I'd forgotten the two parking garages at the larger university medical center across town. I drove back down High Street to Preston, cut across to West Main, and began trolling in the direction of University Corner.
This was a transitional part of town, one that city planners envisioned would one day serve as an attractive bridge between the college and downtown. The vision had been at least partially realized. Between the shells of older structures and vacant lots with their sparkles of broken glass, there were a couple of new hotels and a thriving, if eclectic, strip of eateries. The city had recently upgraded the bridge that crossed the railroad with attractive lighting, and the railroad station itself had undergone a major renovation—one of the buildings now housed a trendy restaurant.
A minute or so later the medical center popped into view on my left. I entered the first garage and started my search.
Ten minutes later, still nothing. Five levels of vehicles, one older Maxima, but nothing remotely resembling the Drummonds’ rental car. Maybe Cartwright Drummond had left the state. Maybe her father was having her followed, like her sister, and for some reason she'd decided to go underground in a Third World country. I moved on to the primary-care-center garage.
I was cruising along the second level, momentarily distracted by a minivan backing out of a space, when a flash of dark blue up ahead on the left caught my attention. Another Maxima. In the amber light it gleamed almost black. I took in a deep breath as I came abreast of the vehicle. D.C. plates.
Checked the tag number. Bingo.
I sat there letting the truck idle for a moment, hardly believing my luck. Maybe there was a simple explanation to this whole affair after all. The vehicle appeared to be clean and unoccupied, just the way Cassidy and Cartwright had probably rented it. I scanned up and down the row of cars. Nothing unusual. Except for the van, the garage was quiet at this time of night—hospital visiting hours were over. Many of the spaces now sat empty. I reached across and grabbed my four-cell and, just in case, my .357 out of the glove box. Strapped on the weapon and stepped from the truck.
Nothing but the sound of my own engine, the cold and the sweet smell of my own exhaust, and the haze of steam blowing from some kind of vents on the roof of the hospital across the street. I slipped on a pair of leather gloves and carefully approached the rental car. In no way did it seem out of order—the inside was empty and the doors were all locked. I considered trying to break in, took a look around, and decided I
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