The Passage House was a safe haven and shelter on Lombard Street. It provided counsel and protection to teenaged runaways; since its founding nearly a decade earlier, more than two thousand girls had passed through its doors.
The storefront building was whitewashed and clean, recently painted. The insides of the windows were webbed with ivy and flowering clematis and other climbing plants, woven through white wooden latticework. Byrne imagined that the purpose of the greenery was twofold. To mask the street-where all the temptations and dangers lurk-and to indicate to the girls who were considering just passing by that inside there was life.
As he approached the front doors, Byrne knew it might be a mistake to identify himself as a police officer-this was anything but an official visit-but if he came in like a civilian, asking questions, he could be someone's father, boyfriend, dirty uncle. At a place like the Passage House, he could be the problem.
Out front, a woman was washing the windows. Her name was Shakti Reynolds. Victoria had mentioned her many times, always in glowing terms. Shakti Reynolds was one of the founders of the center. She had devoted her life to the cause after losing a daughter to street violence years earlier. Byrne badged her, hoping the move would not come back to haunt him.
"What can I do for you, Detective?"
"I'm looking for Victoria Lindstrom."
"She's not here, I'm afraid."
"Was she supposed to be in today?"
Shakti nodded. She was a tall, broad-shouldered woman of about forty-five, with close-cropped gray hair. Her toffee skin was smooth and wan. Byrne noticed the patches of scalp showing through the woman's hair and wondered if she had recently gone through chemotherapy. He was once again reminded that the city was made up of people who fought their own dragons each day, and it wasn't always about him.
"Yes, she's usually here by now," Shakti said.
"She hasn't called?"
"No."
"Are you at all concerned about that?"
At this, Byrne saw the woman's jawline tighten slightly, as if she thought he was challenging her personal commitment to her employees. In a moment she relaxed. "No, Detective. Victoria is very dedicated to the center, but she is also a woman. And a single woman at that. We're fairly loose here."
Byrne continued, relieved he hadn't insulted or alienated her. "Has anyone been asking for her lately?"
"Well, she's quite popular with the girls. They see her more as an older sister than an adult."
"I mean someone from outside the group."
She dropped her squeegee into the bucket, thought for a few moments. "Well, now that you mention it a guy stopped by the other day asking for her."
"What did he want?"
"He wanted to see her, but she was on a sandwich run."
"What did you tell him?"
"I didn't tell him anything. Just that she wasn't in. He asked a few more questions. Nosy-type questions. I called Mitch over and the guy took one look at him and left."
Shakti gestured to a man sitting at a table inside, playing solitaire. Man was a relative term. Mountain was more accurate. Mitch went about 350.
"What did this guy look like?"
"White, average height. Snaky looking, I thought. Didn't like him from the get-go."
If anyone's antennae were tuned to snaky men, it was Shakti Reynolds, Byrne thought. "If Victoria stops by, or this guy comes back, please give me a call." He handed her a card. "My cell phone number is on the back. That's the best way to get hold of me in the next few days."
"Sure," she said. She slipped the card into the pocket of her worn flannel shirt. "Can I ask you something?"
"Please."
"Should I be worried about Tori?"
Absolutely, Byrne thought. About as worried as a person could or should be for another. He looked into the woman's shrewd eyes, wanted to tell her no, but she was probably as attuned to street bullshit as he was. Probably more so. Instead of crafting a story for her, he simply said: "I don't know."
She held up the card. "I'll call if I hear anything."
"I'd appreciate it."
"And if there's anything I can do on this end, please let me know."
"I will," Byrne said. "Thanks again."
Byrne turned to walk to his car. Across the street from the shelter a pair of teenaged girls watched and waited and paced and smoked, perhaps summoning the courage to cross the street. Byrne slipped into his car thinking that, like a lot of journeys in life, the last few feet were the hardest.