The Ninth Caller Ch. 07

Shelia looked up from her desk at Jones Realty. When her eyes settled on the clock on the wall, her face darkened into a frown. Ricky, again, was late. He was usually late and once again she found herself all alone in the small office. That, in itself, was not particularly surprising. She was quite used to being alone all day — just like yesterday and, in reality, every day. It was irritating but certainly not unexpected.

She had long ago gotten quite used to her daily solitude. Being the "office manager" of a real estate office in a Podunk town like McKee Kentucky did not require a lot of staff. None actually. And, in fact, it also rarely included any customers either.

This lack of customers was probably for the best. Anyone unfortunate enough to enter her office, would, after one quick glance around the ramshackle interior of Jones Realty, be certain to immediately determine that this was a place best to be avoided. After all, who in their right mind, after taking a gander at the warped, stark institutional-white walls, festooned with old calendars of bikini clad girls holding various wrenches, not pause and wonder if this was truly a place of business and not some sort of bizarre time warp. First stop — 1974. There would be no doubt they certainly would not want to entrust their life savings to the employees of this dump.

But, if this highly dated and inappropriate décor was not enough to scare away any customers, any further doubts would be cleared from their minds after inhaling the whiff of the stale coffee heavily perfuming the air. There, in the corner of the room, the twenty-five-year-old Mr. Coffee maker was on. It was always on; and the carafe, once clear, now looked as if it was made of amber. Decades of java brewed, and burned, inside had permanently stained it brown. It added to the overall atmosphere of decay.

This was no problem though. Solitude was fine with Shelia and she hated showing houses anyway. Staying in the office was more her speed, and McKee Kentucky was a buyer's market. The U-Haul's leaving town outnumbered the ones entering by a factor of ten. She had not shown a house for sale for months.

No, her time was spent managing the various rental properties owned by owner of the company, Tim Jones, and that work was mostly conducted over the phone. Her days were filled by calling in repairmen to fix decrepit fridges or running down deadbeats whose rent checks bounced. It was a boring job, but not a bad gig and she considered herself lucky. Jobs, even shitty ones like this, were in short supply in this part of Kentucky. Figuring she had time to kill, she went back to reading the latest issue of US magazine. Celebrity gossip always was a good time killer. Her head popped up when she heard the door open.

"You're late," she said as Ricky walked in the door.

"Late? What are you talking about?" Ricky said as he glanced down at his watch. "It's only 8 AM?"

"Don't you remember what I told you yesterday?"

Ricky shook his head and smirked. "Well, obviously since you are bitching, and it is very early for that to start, you can assume I did not."

Shelia smiled and her tight, overly made up face relaxed as a wave of Deja-vu flowed over her body. This was a standard conversation, one often repeated. Ricky was a fuckup. He was not a bad guy, and literally would do anything she asked, but, sadly, there were a ratchet sets missing from his mental craftsman toolbox. Still, he was very useful. If she needed the pool filters changed at one of the properties, she sent Ricky. If one of the washing machines broke at the 'Wash n Dry' Jones Realty managed, Ricky was on it, wrench in hand. And today she had another job for him, one that came up all too often. He needed to go clean out an abandoned apartment where the tenant skipped out on the rent. Kentucky had seen better times, but those times were quite a while ago and this chore was a seemingly monthly duty now.

"Well..., it doesn't matter," Shelia said, "but, Tim needs you to clean out one of the apartments this morning. He wants to get it ready to show by tomorrow, if possible."

"Ah, another rent skipper, eh?"

"Yeah," Shelia said, "third this month. Boy, did I call this one."

"You usually do."

"Well, I had a bad feeling about that girl from the moment she came in here to sign the lease. One look at those Daisy Dukes and the tube top told me all I needed to know." She shook her head and added, "I just don't know why Tim keeps on insisting on renting his apartments to these low rent redneck whores. If you ask me, he is just asking for trouble. They make terrible tenants." She frowned before she added, "and that bitch didn't even put down a security deposit!"

"Hey..., don't talk shit about redneck whores!" Ricky exclaimed as he smiled. "I would never get laid without em."

"Pig," Shelia said as she laughed. "Knowing where your paycheck always goes, I should have just asked you for the money directly, she probably got most of it from you anyway. She was a dancer over at the Doll House, you know."

"Really? Well, It would have been more efficient," Ricky said with a laugh. "Although, I doubt you would want the whole amount in ones."

Shaking her head, she said, "well, these girls have their charms, no doubt, but still..., as a group, they suck as renters."

"Clover Hill?" Ricky asked.

Shelia smiled and nodded. "Of course, where else?"

Ricky laughed as he said, "figures."

The location was not a surprise to Ricky. Clover Hill Apartments was one of the more rundown apartment complexes Jones Realty managed, and was very popular with the more "transient" residents of McKee. The rent was cheap, the lease was month to month and all utilities were included. For those living hand to mouth, it was the go-to place. He had made many trips to Clover Hill over the years for just such a duty and he sighed as he thought about his day to come. It would not be pleasant. It was so fucking hot today, he hoped the renter had not left any food in the refrigerator. That shit is a bitch to clean.

"Which apartment is it?" Ricky asked.

Shelia glanced over at her computer, typed in a few keystrokes and pulled up the record. "I got it right here. Resident - Tammy Richardson. Age - 20. Unit - 303. Occupation - Dancer." She paused as she looked over at Ricky and said, "Maybe you didn't tip her well enough for those lap dances you love so much. We should really have a no-dancer policy."

"Don't be a bitch, Shelia," Ricky said with a grin. "Dancers have to live somewhere, you know."

"Yeah...," she said as she exhaled, "I know, but it pretty much fits the stereotype, doesn't it? "Lookey, I ain't no prude. I don't care how these girls make their money, tis no skin off my nose, but I just wish those bitches would pay their damn rent on time. This skedaddling off in the middle of the night routine is getting old."

"Shit, I bet there is going to be a mess to deal with," Ricky said. "There always is when someone leaves in the middle of the night."

"Maybe not. The girl didn't live there very long, and her neighbors said she was quiet. Hopefully it won't be too big of a job." She smiled as she looked over at Ricky, a frown forming on his face, and added, "I know it sucks to have to gather up garbage in the middle of the summer, but a job is a job, and Tim wants this taken care of today."

"So, she just up and left in the middle of the night with no word to nobody?" Ricky said.

"Apparently so. I got suspicious when she was late with this month's rent," Shelia said as she raised her eyebrow. "Not a surprising event, but, she had always been on time before. When I went by her place to deliver the past due notice, I saw she was gone. Her mail had piled up, so she it looks like she must have skipped out a few days ago."

"I can never imagine doing that. I have way too much shit in my house to be able to get out that quick," Ricky laughed.

"Yeah," Shelia said. "Me too. Plus..., damn, my Earl's got at least ten sheds full of shit piled up in our backyard. If we ever bailed on our mortgage it would take the bank two years to clean all that crap out."

"I suppose she found greener pastures elsewhere," Ricky said. "Can't blame her, really."

"No," Shelia said as she nodded, "best to get out of this shit town while you can, before you are too old and tired to even hope for anything better. But still, that still doesn't mean you can avoid your debts!"

"So, do you want me to take all the stuff over to the auction house?" Ricky asked.

She sighed and shook her head, before she said, "No. This is different."

"Different?"

"You know, for a rich guy, Tim's got a big heart, you know?" Shelia said. "He doesn't want her stuff sold off."

"What?"

"Yeah..., he told me he wants all her belongings brought up to his place for storage in case she comes back."

"He's keeping her stuff himself, in his own house?"

"Yeah, can you believe it? I told him she ain't never coming back, but..., he wouldn't listen."

"He's a big man," Ricky said as he walked over to the door and turned the doorknob. "OK then, I am heading out. You know, I have never been out to Tim's place. Do you have the address?"

"Yeah," Shelia answered as she wrote it down on a sheet of paper and handed the slip to Tim. "It is way the hell out in BFE. You better take your GPS."

Ricky, looking down at the address laughed. "Holy fuck! This is not even in BFE, but more like the BFE metro area! Good thing I put gas in my truck this morning."

"Tim likes it remote."

"No shit," Ricky said. "Well, it looks like I won't be back today."

"No, you probably won't, but just as well," Shelia said. She held up her magazine and said, "I got to get all caught up on my stories, you know."

*****

Phil Middleton looked down at his notepad and scribbled down his notes. His mind already churned as to his next step and he was anxious to get to his computer. A former cop, Phil found his career as a private investigator paid much better than being a man in blue, and he was glad he made the move when he did. Times were rough now for police work, and, he was ashamed to say, it was a lot safer being one for hire than working on the force.

He also certainly did not miss dealing with drug dealers and the infinite supply of petty criminals he used to contend with as a cop. Every day seeing people at their worst, for little money, got old quick. Now, as a private investigator, his days were filled with tracking down cheating spouses or wayward runaway teens. This was not only much safer, but, far more lucrative. His current "case" he agreed to take on behalf of his sister-in-law, Jane, was fairly routine, and he figured it would not be very difficult at all. Finding missing people was his specialty, and, it was a lot easier now.

Private investigative work had changed quite a bit in the past few years. Once it all had been worn shoe leather hitting the pavement, all-night stakeouts and countless hours spent trailing suspects. Now, so much of his work was done online, he sometimes never had to leave his house. It was so much easier than the old days, and every night when he popped open his Bud light in front of his TV, he made a toast to Mark Zuckerberg. Damn, people leave LOTS of juicy trails on Facebook.

"So, can you give me any other information about this girl, Mr. Knight?" Phil asked.

"I wish there was more to give," Frank said, "but it was a long time ago — 20 years."

"Yes, of course," Phil said, "but, do you know how many Jennys there are from McKee Kentucky?"

"Quite a few, I am sure," Frank said. "I grew up there. I remember that all of the girls I went to school with were either named Jenny, Tammy or Sherry; so, I am sure it is a challenge." He grinned, as he added, "Kentucky is many things, but creative in naming babies is not one of those things."

"So I noticed," Phil said as he frowned. He pulled his laptop up onto the kitchen table and turned it on. "So, you say this girl was around twenty years old back in 1996, you say?"

"Yeah, give or take," Frank said. "It is hard to know for sure, but that seems right."

"And you are sure she wasn't under 18?"

"What is this?" Frank said. "I am not —"

"—Calm down, Mr. Knight," Phil said. "I am not the police — at least, not anymore. I am not accusing you of anything..., unsavory. But, knowing the girl's age as accurately as possible will help narrow things down."

"Yes, of course."

"I was able to access several years' worth of yearbook pictures from Jackson County High School, and I have quite a few Jennys to contend with, so the more I know the faster this will go. Once I figure out what class she graduated in, it will make things easier."

"She didn't have a date code imprinted on her forehead you know! But, I know she was definitely over 18," Frank snapped.

"Hmmm," Jane said with a smirk. "Are you sure of that? You always did like them young, Frank." She raised her eyebrow when she added, "it's not a stretch to think you might have dipped into the shallow end of the pool, even if by accident."

"Shut up, Jane," Frank said. Turning back to Phil, Frank said, "So..., I guess if Jenny was twenty in 1996 that would have put her in the class of 94?"

"Yes, or 95, depending on whether she had to repeat any grades," Phil said. He turned on his computer and the screen filled up with twenty pictures, all in a row. They were the standard black and white yearbook pictures common in hundreds of thousands of schools all over America. As Frank ran his eyes over the photos, he felt a pinch of regret as he studied the images. It was the twinge one gets when confronted by their own misty, and regrettable past.

They all seemed so very familiar. Every girl shockingly the same: big hair, bright shiny faces, way too much makeup, all full of hope and boundless optimism. They were just like all of the girls he graduated with thirty years earlier. It was sad. So many fresh, young lives with their perceived bright futures ahead of them. If they only knew what was coming, they would not look so hopeful. Ignorance truly does lead to bliss.

"Damn, I just don't know," Frank said. "I mean, some of these girls look a little familiar, but I do —"

"—That's her!" Sofia cried as she pointed at the third picture from the left at the bottom of the screen. "That's Jenny! I recognize her."

Frank squinted as he looked closer at the picture. Somewhere in the deep recesses of his brain, a door opened, a lock turned, and a long forgotten and abandoned connection was made. The gears inside his head started to churn as a glimmer of recognition started to glow, like the first stirrings of a campfire as it starts to catch. He scratched his chin, and nodded. "You know..., I think you are right. That girl does look very familiar."

The girl in question was pretty, and when Frank read the script under her photo: Jenny Bailey, class of 1994, Flag Girl, French club, wants to go to the University of Kentucky to study nursing, a fresh wave of sadness washed over him. As he looked at the pretty blonde girl in the picture, her bright smiling face seeming so hopeful he thought "What happened to you, Jenny? Who killed you, and why?"

"What are you thinking about, Frank?" Jane said. "Is that the girl?"

"I think so. I remember the hair and the —"

"Tits, no doubt," Jane said with a smirk as she pointed at the picture. "You always did like them busty."

Frank winced. It seemed wrong to discuss Jenny like this, especially since she was dead.

"All right," Phil said, "this helps enormously. With a full name, things will move much faster now. I have connections that can get her employment history, residences, credit history, you name it. It should be relatively easy to track her down now. Just give me just a few minutes and we will at least have a starting point for the trail."

*****

Ricky braced himself as he put the key into the lock of apartment 303. He had performed this task many times over the years, too many he thought, and he had no illusions about what to expect. Cleaning up the debris of lives gone wrong is never pleasant. Personal tragedies are rarely tidy.

Once he nearly blew himself up when he stumbled into an abandoned Meth lab in an apartment he had to empty. That was only slightly more dangerous than the incident where a former resident refused to leave and greeted Ricky at the front door with a double-barreled shotgun pointed at his face. That required a trip home to change his shorts, but, luckily, cooler heads prevailed, and the renter left peacefully. Another time, he nearly lost his leg to a very hungry, and scared, Pitbull left behind by the former tenants. The poor animal had not eaten for days, and was about to enjoy a nice Ricky sandwich before he made good use of the slimjim he had brought for a snack. Being a handyman for a real estate office can get exciting some times.

Normally though, it was just routine and not exciting at all. In fact, it was a fucking dreadful hassle, and usually involved a giant mess and tons of garbage to clean up. People who skip out on their rent rarely tidy up before they go. Sometimes copper tubing is stripped from the plumbing on the way out. Other times people decide to have one final blowout in their home before they leave. This has resulted in fist holes in the drywall, various human fluids deposited on the thick shag carpeting and God forbid discussing the horror show in the bathroom! He shuddered as he turned the key and opened the door, mentally preparing himself for the worst.

As he walked inside the small living room, he took a deep breath and smiled. This was an unexpected and pleasant surprise. The apartment was neat as a pin. To his left, he saw the ubiquitous crate and barrel couch and chair that seemed to be the standard starter furniture for everyone, including himself. To his right, he spied a very old TV set. No flat screen HDTV for this girl. No, this was a hand-me-down and not worth saving. He dreaded having to move that heavy cathode ray monstrosity out to the truck. Still, he felt fortunate. This was not going to be bad at all.

Ricky walked through the rest of the apartment and found each room was a clean and tidy as the first. No trash on the floor or signs of one last booze fueled blowout. The rooms were filled with tired and worn out, but otherwise clean and tidy hand me down furniture. He paused when he got to the kitchen and opened the cabinets. This girl's dishes were just like the ones his grandma had, cobalt blue with tiny yellow flowers decorating the circumference and the sight of them made him grin. When he walked into the back bedroom, however, his smile dissolved. The bed was made and nothing was out of order, but, in the center of the faded quilt lay a pink teddy bear. It was very odd. This was not like any "clean out" he had performed before. This girl left everything behind!

Ricky walked out to his truck to retrieve some boxes. This was going to take a while.

*****

"All right, here we go," Phil said as his computer screen filled. "Jenny Bailey, social security number 404-47-9999."

"9999?" Jane asked. "Well now..., that is super creepy."

"Creepy?" Phil asked. "Why is that?"

"This all started with the 9th caller on my show," Phil interjected.

Juanita crossed herself and leaned in to listen.

"Well...," Phil said, "I don't know about any paranormal significance of that, but, here is what I do know." He paused, before saying, "Her records are very strange. This is not at all what I expected."

"Strange? Strange in what way?" Jane asked.

"Well..., her records just stop," Phil said. "Right in 1996. It is like she just completely vanished without a trace." He glanced over at Frank, and said, "After you —"

"—Look, I had nothing to do with her disappearance, if that is what you are implying," Phil exclaimed.