stay seated. “Tell me what you want my help with. Are you going to redo your bathroom?”
He looked confused for a moment, automatically sliding our bowls and plates toward me as I ran water in the sink. “My bathroom? No. I want your help finding a missing kid.”
“That I can do,” I said, relieved that he didn’t want manual labor. I wasn’t up to it after getting beaten up by a psychotic skating coach and a mysterious intruder. “Who?” I squirted citrusy dish soap into the sink and made it bubble up by running the water hard.
“He goes by Kungfu.”
“That’s a name?”
Dan shrugged. “Nickname. He’s an Asian kid, maybe sixteen.”
I looked at him suspiciously. “Is this one of your runaways?” Dan volunteered at a nonprofit downtown, Dellert House, that provided temporary lodging for homeless men and teens, some of whom were runaways. He did counseling with the boys. “Your runaway ran away?”
“Something like that,” he admitted with a crooked smile.
“How do you know he didn’t go back home?” I scrubbed at a stubborn spot on the stew pan.
Dan shook his head. “He didn’t.”
The expression on his face persuaded me. “Okay. Do you have a picture? When did you last see him?”
“Saturday morning.” Dan pulled a square of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. Four teens mugged for the camera, holding hammers and pliers and screwdrivers. “This was taken a week ago, the morning we took the guys to work on the Habitat house. That’s him,” Dan said, tapping the kid second from the left.
I studied him. He looked ordinary, with straight black hair long enough to tuck behind his ears, almond-shaped eyes, and crooked teeth displayed in a wide grin. “What makes you think he didn’t just move on?”
“Because I hired him to do some custodial work at the church,” Dan said, a line between his brows. “He needed the money. He hinted that he was saving for something big but wouldn’t say what. He worked last Friday and half a day Saturday but didn’t show up on Tuesday like he was supposed to. I asked around Dellert’s, but no one’s seen him. His stuff is still there.”
I dried my hands on a paper towel and chucked it toward the trash. I’d done pro bono work for Dan before, but this case seemed like a loser from the word go. A kid who’d run away from home wouldn’t hesitate to ditch a halfway house he found confining. Or maybe he’d had a run-in with the law. I’d check.
“Why this kid, Dan? Don’t runaways drift in and out of Dellert’s all the time?” I studied his face. He seemed tired, his skin a little gray under the perpetual tan, the lines at the corners of his eyes a bit deeper. I usually guessed his age as being early forties to early fifties; tonight, he looked like he belonged on the latter end of that scale.
“I don’t know,” Dan admitted, rubbing a hand down his face. “He seemed like he could make it, brighter than most, with a real plan. Maybe he reminds me of someone I used to know. Shit.”
“C’mon,” I said, taking his hand. “You need a half hour in a hot tub. That’s Dr. Charlie’s prescription for what ails you. And another Scotch.” I grabbed the Lagavulin bottle in my other hand and dragged him toward the door.
“What ails me?” he asked with half a smile.
I set down the Scotch and framed him between my hands, like a movie director setting up a shot. “An inability to solve all the world’s problems and a deep sadness that you can’t save the youth of Colorado Springs from their abusive parents or their own stupid choices,” I intoned in the voice of a film narrator. “Either that or you’re worried about the middle-aged man’s trio of fears: hair loss, erectile dysfunction, and high cholesterol.” I ticked them off on my fingers.
“Middle-aged!”
“Only one thing will cure all that.”
“Prayer.”
He didn’t even make it a question. No wonder he was a priest.
“No, Scotch and water. Hot water, that
He looked confused for a moment, automatically sliding our bowls and plates toward me as I ran water in the sink. “My bathroom? No. I want your help finding a missing kid.”
“That I can do,” I said, relieved that he didn’t want manual labor. I wasn’t up to it after getting beaten up by a psychotic skating coach and a mysterious intruder. “Who?” I squirted citrusy dish soap into the sink and made it bubble up by running the water hard.
“He goes by Kungfu.”
“That’s a name?”
Dan shrugged. “Nickname. He’s an Asian kid, maybe sixteen.”
I looked at him suspiciously. “Is this one of your runaways?” Dan volunteered at a nonprofit downtown, Dellert House, that provided temporary lodging for homeless men and teens, some of whom were runaways. He did counseling with the boys. “Your runaway ran away?”
“Something like that,” he admitted with a crooked smile.
“How do you know he didn’t go back home?” I scrubbed at a stubborn spot on the stew pan.
Dan shook his head. “He didn’t.”
The expression on his face persuaded me. “Okay. Do you have a picture? When did you last see him?”
“Saturday morning.” Dan pulled a square of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. Four teens mugged for the camera, holding hammers and pliers and screwdrivers. “This was taken a week ago, the morning we took the guys to work on the Habitat house. That’s him,” Dan said, tapping the kid second from the left.
I studied him. He looked ordinary, with straight black hair long enough to tuck behind his ears, almond-shaped eyes, and crooked teeth displayed in a wide grin. “What makes you think he didn’t just move on?”
“Because I hired him to do some custodial work at the church,” Dan said, a line between his brows. “He needed the money. He hinted that he was saving for something big but wouldn’t say what. He worked last Friday and half a day Saturday but didn’t show up on Tuesday like he was supposed to. I asked around Dellert’s, but no one’s seen him. His stuff is still there.”
I dried my hands on a paper towel and chucked it toward the trash. I’d done pro bono work for Dan before, but this case seemed like a loser from the word go. A kid who’d run away from home wouldn’t hesitate to ditch a halfway house he found confining. Or maybe he’d had a run-in with the law. I’d check.
“Why this kid, Dan? Don’t runaways drift in and out of Dellert’s all the time?” I studied his face. He seemed tired, his skin a little gray under the perpetual tan, the lines at the corners of his eyes a bit deeper. I usually guessed his age as being early forties to early fifties; tonight, he looked like he belonged on the latter end of that scale.
“I don’t know,” Dan admitted, rubbing a hand down his face. “He seemed like he could make it, brighter than most, with a real plan. Maybe he reminds me of someone I used to know. Shit.”
“C’mon,” I said, taking his hand. “You need a half hour in a hot tub. That’s Dr. Charlie’s prescription for what ails you. And another Scotch.” I grabbed the Lagavulin bottle in my other hand and dragged him toward the door.
“What ails me?” he asked with half a smile.
I set down the Scotch and framed him between my hands, like a movie director setting up a shot. “An inability to solve all the world’s problems and a deep sadness that you can’t save the youth of Colorado Springs from their abusive parents or their own stupid choices,” I intoned in the voice of a film narrator. “Either that or you’re worried about the middle-aged man’s trio of fears: hair loss, erectile dysfunction, and high cholesterol.” I ticked them off on my fingers.
“Middle-aged!”
“Only one thing will cure all that.”
“Prayer.”
He didn’t even make it a question. No wonder he was a priest.
“No, Scotch and water. Hot water, that
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