“He’s homeless?”
She nodded. “Lance is schizophrenic. He lived with our parents, but he hates taking his medication, and last year, he got tired of fighting with them about it. He just left.”
“With nowhere to go?”
“He didn’t really have anyone in his life other than us. The schizophrenia drove everyone else away.”
Her voice was brittle and my heart ached for her. Of course she’d come here to look for him. If he was living on the streets of La Playa, there was a good chance he’d show up at the soup kitchen.
“You have a picture?” I asked.
Annie reached into her back pocket and pulled out a wallet-sized picture of a man closer to my age with shaggy brown hair and a nice smile. He didn’t look familiar to me.
“I don’t think I’ve seen him,” I said regretfully. I started to hand the picture back to her, but she shook her head.
“Keep it, please. Just so you have something to reference if he comes in when you’re here. I have about a hundred more copies, just in case.”
I pocketed the picture and gave her a small, encouraging smile.
“Sean’s the one you want to talk to,” I told her. “He’s here all the time. If Lance comes in here, he’ll know it.”
“Thanks, Sabrina,” Annie said. “I’m sorry to get so emotional. It’s just...it’s hard to talk about.”
“Hey, don’t be sorry about that.”
I was sure that I’d be pretty upset too, if I were in her situation, but I was an only child.
The kitchen door opened and Sean pushed in a cart loaded with dirty dishes. “You guys hiding in here? A family of four just came in.”
“On it, boss,” I said, giving him a salute before pulling Annie out of the kitchen while he chuckled.
It was business as usual as we finished up the dinner, serving the stragglers for the last fifteen minutes of our hour-long dinner service and then cleaning up. But I couldn’t stop thinking about Annie’s brother. The poor man might not even realize that he had a loved one looking for him if he was an unmedicated schizophrenic. I glanced over at Annie as we worked together to wipe down the tables and chairs in the dining room, and I silently promised myself that I would do anything I could to help her. Someone that loved her family so much deserved answers.
Butch
Jail cells were ridiculously uncomfortable. I knew it wasn’t supposed to be comparable to a stay at the Hilton uptown, but this was ridiculous. I’d been sitting on an uncushioned metal bench for four hours and my ass hurt.
I didn’t know anyone that had the money to bail me out, except my boss, but I didn’t want her to waste her hard-earned money on it. I’d told her as much when I got my one phone call. Abby had argued, but I was adamant, telling her to just worry about getting someone to cover my shift tonight. It was Friday, and that was historically a day of the week that brought out the assholes to the strip club. They needed muscle at the door. She’d eventually agreed to focus her attention on that, but I was sure that once I went before a judge and bail was set, she’d do whatever she had to do to get me out of here. I was betting that wouldn’t happen until Monday at this point. It was going to be a long weekend.
I could see a big clock on the wall above the sergeant’s desk just twenty feet away, showing the slow passage of time. It was only five o’clock in the afternoon, but I was considering stretching my body out on this hard bench and going to sleep, just to kill time.
There were two other men in the cell with me, a tweaker that was annoying the hell out of me with his twitching and a quiet average Joe that smelled like a damn brewery. I wasn’t interested in either of them. They didn’t intimidate me.
One of the cops came through a door leading to the bullpen, approaching the sergeant’s desk. I watched as he spoke to his boss in a low tone that didn’t carry to the holding cell. But they were both looking in my direction. The sergeant frowned, then stood, pulling out the key ring that was attached to his waist by thin wire.
“Brian Finnell, you’re free to go,” he said while opening the door of the cell.
I furrowed my brow. It was weird to be called Brian. I had been going by the nickname Butch for years.
“You sure about that?” It made no sense.
The sergeant glared. “Do I look unsure to you?”
I took in his clenched jaw and lowered browline.
“Nope,” I said, standing from the bench, “can’t say that you do.”
I followed Sergeant Hardass out of the cell and through the bullpen. We stopped at the intake desk, where another cop handed me a clipboard.
