An hour later, the elevator doors at Child Protective Services opened to the wail of a small child quickly shushed as his mother shoved something in his mouth with a guilty look around. Was the guilt because the child had cried? Or because the mother was using candy to quiet him at nine o'clock in the morning? The air of the dreary CPS waiting room was heavy with desperation, suffocating in its thickness. But there was nothing she could do for these people. She concentrated on her purpose in coming here and went directly to the reception desk, where a harassed looking young woman sat answering phones.
Cyn waited until the receptionist had finished her call. “I'd like to see Ramona Hewitt,” she said.
"Is she expecting you?” The young woman had a distinct Texas drawl, unfiltered by education or experience.
"No, but I only need—"
"You need an appointment. I can—"
"—a few minutes of her time. Tell her it's about Elizabeth Hawthorn."
The receptionist pursed her lips in irritation, then ran her eyes up and down, taking in Cyn's appearance—the pale blue jeans, artfully faded and worn, the soft leather coat, expensive hair cut, clean, neat ... money. The one thing government bureaucrats had learned to respect. “One moment.” She picked up the phone, punched a few buttons and spoke into the receiver, turning away and doing her best to keep Cyn from hearing. When she turned back, her look of disapproval had only deepened, but she gave a little nod.
"Mrs. Hewitt will see you.” She left unspoken her opinion on the matter and pointed to her left. “Down this hall, first left, second right, last office on the right.” She spoke quickly, then glared at Cyn, daring her to ask for clarification. Cyn murmured her thanks, but she had already ceased to exist for the busy young woman as the phone resumed its insistent trilling.
Ramona Hewitt looked up when Cyn tapped lightly on the open door. She was a fiftyish black woman, with smooth, perfect skin that would look exactly the same when she was eighty as it did today. Long, wiry hair had been gathered into a ruthless braid and wrapped tightly around her head to form a graying crown over a face that bore the lines of an easy smile. She wasn't smiling now. She gave Cyn the same once over as the receptionist and reached the same unflattering conclusion. “You can't be related, I know all her relations and there aren't many, none of ‘em worth a spit, leaving those little girls the way they did."
"Mrs. Hewitt,” Cynthia said in her most polite and professional voice. “My name is Cynthia Leighton. I'm a private investigator—"
"Investigator? You're about eight years too late, aren't you?"
Cyn stopped, confused. “I was hired by Jabril—"
"I've got nothing to say to you then.” Hewitt was already turning away, paging through a fat folder on her desk.
"Did you know Elizabeth ran away?” Cyn interrupted. Hewitt closed the folder and stared at her. Well, that caught her attention, Cyn thought.
The caseworker frowned. “I can't believe that. Lizzie would have called me."
"That's why I'm here. I was told if she talked to anyone it was you. And I want to find her."
Hewitt huffed in disgust. “Why, so you can give her back to that God damned vampire?” It wasn't a curse the way Hewitt said it; it was a literal truth.
"No. Whether you believe it or not, I want to help her. Her and her sister, Mirabelle.” Cyn pulled out a card from her backpack. It was the business card for Jessica's House, a teen shelter in L.A. run by Lucia Shinn, one of Cyn's few close friends. Cyn scribbled Luci's name and personal number, as well as her own cell number, on the back before handing it to the caseworker. “Before you decide I'm one of the bad guys, you might give this person a call. If, after talking to her, you decide that I might actually do some good, my cell's on the card and it's always on. I'll be in Houston until this case takes me somewhere else.” She turned to walk out, but Hewitt's voice stopped her.
"How is Mirabelle?"
Cyn paused, turning back. “Not good. But I'm going to get her out of there too.” She didn't wait for a response. She didn't need one. There was no doubt in her mind about what needed to be done. It would be easier with Hewitt's help, but she'd do it without her if she had to.
Chapter Nine
The Children's Museum of Houston was pretty easy to find. After all, how many buildings could there be with giant yellow pillars and a pagoda looking sign with huge pink letters spelling out “museum” across the front? Not to mention the roving gangs of screaming children who had clearly subdued their chaperones and were now planning a coup of some sort. Cyn leaned against an adjacent building, well back from the crowds, and used the vantage of her six foot height to scan the area for Kelli. She could see why the girl would want to meet here. There were so many people milling around, and so many of them were children, that a petite girl like Kelli could easily be mistaken for one of the older kids. Cyn caught sight of her around back of a fat pillar, her many earrings glinting in the sun as she peered out to search the courtyard for Cyn. Steeling herself against the onslaught, Cyn headed across the plaza, wading through the potential revolutionaries to reach Kelli's side.
"Hey!"
Kelli's face brightened, though her eyes scanned the area around them as if making sure Cyn was alone. “Hi,” she returned. “Let's go inside. We'll pretend you're my mom.” She gave Cyn that wicked grin again.
"Nice. What're you nineteen?"
"Twenty next month."
"Yeah, well I'm not old enough to be your mom. Why're we here?"
Kelli shrugged. “It's noisy and there's always lots of people. Plus Montrose is close by and a lot of the street kids hang around here, especially on Thursday nights. Families get in free and it's pretty easy to slip inside. Anyway, no one will look twice at a single mom and her kid."
Cyn bought tickets and nudged Kelli toward the door. “I don't want to be a single mom. Why can't I have a rich husband instead?"
"I don't know. You look like a single mom to me, like you're out there, you know? Looking for someone."