I did. When it came to finding missing children, one needed to be dogged and relentless. No stone left unturned. Having good instincts helped, too. But the funny thing about instincts was that one never knew when they would kick in. That's where the dogged and relentless part came in.
"How old is your granddaughter?" I asked. Always use the present. Never, ever refer to a child in the past tense.
"Sixteen or seventeen. I'm not really sure. Her birthday is next month."
My son's birthday would have been next month, too, but I didn't say anything about that. There was enough heartache in this room without bringing that up. He would have been thirteen. Instead, he died when he was nine.
At the thought of my son's birthday, my breath caught, and I was briefly back in the forest, sitting in the short grass, holding his charred hand as the nearby water bubbled with life.
Presently, a small breeze made its way through the open window behind me. Los Angeles smelled of exhaust and oil and burned rubber.
"Has she run away before?" I asked.
"No."
"Do you have a photo of her?"
"Yes."
She reached into an oversized purse and pulled out a manila file. "At Detective Hammer's suggestion, I put together a package for you. Everything about her is in here, pictures, friends, her likes and dislikes, favorite places to hang out, anything and everything I could think of. There's even a list of her favorite books. All vampire books."
I took the proffered file, flipped through it. I got to the list of vampire books. She seemed to prefer one author in particular.
"Thanks," I said. "This will help a lot."
Gladys nodded. "I have some more information that might help you, Mr. Spinoza."
I waited.
"Her parents were killed three years ago. She's lived with us off and on ever since."
She waited, as if expecting a reply. None came. She went on awkwardly. "Yes, well, there's something else you should know about her. Something that worries me a great deal."
I waited some more, although I did nod encouragingly.
She went on, "Veronica is a little...different."
"Different how?"
I was imagining a slower child. Perhaps one with autism. Some sort of disability. Gladys was looking increasingly uncomfortable. She took in some air and leveled her stare at me.
"She sort of lives in her own fantasy world, Mr. Spinoza."
"What does that mean?"
"She calls herself a slayer."
"A slayer?" I said. "As in dragons?"
"No, as in vampires."
Gladys blinked slowly, but didn't look away. I think my mouth might have opened, but no words came out. Finally, I nodded.
"You mean like in Dungeons & Dragons," I said. "Or that World of Witchcraft, or whatever it's called. A slayer is like her - what do they call it? - her avatar?"
Gladys smiled gently. "I'm not sure I understood half of what you just said, Mr. Spinoza, but what I do know is that she really thinks she's a vampire slayer."
"Do you have her on any medication?"