handshake is firm, though her hands are aged. Her doughy face, captured by the wimple, is the face of an old lady, except for her bright gray eyes. They glisten with an ebullient spirit.
“This is,” says the man behind, the desk, “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
“Margot,” I say, “Margot Skinner.”
“Margot, this is Sister Margaret.” He looks up at the nun. “Her daughter is missing.” He hands the photograph of Robyn to Sister Margaret. She considers the picture a moment, and then returns her attention to me.
“I remember seeing a spot on the news.”
“Yes!” I say. A flutter of hope trills in my chest.
Sister Margaret glances at her watch.
“I’m late,” she says. She looks up into my eyes. “Wanna go for a ride?”
A ride? I shrug. What have I got to lose?
“Sure,” I say.
“Come on,” Sister Margaret says, nodding towards the front door. She snatches Robyn’s picture from the hand of the man behind the desk.
Before opening the front door, she spins around. “And Jerry, if Carlo so much as steps one toe into the lobby before he’s done studying, tell him he’s going to have to answer directly to me!”
“Yes ma’am,” Jerry says, giving her a mock salute and a grin.
Outside, the air feels even colder and I tug my sweater to my chest. The haze of stale Chinese food hangs in the air. Sister Margaret is walking so briskly that I am almost trotting in order to keep up with her. We round the Center, and behind the large building is an alley. Parked in an alley is an old pickup that looks like something from The Andy Griffith Show. In its bed are a dozen large coolers in various colors and brands. The truck’s maroon paint is pocked by large deposits of rust and the front bumper is tied onto the truck with dull yellow nylon rope. Sister Margaret opens the driver’s side door, motioning me over with a nod.
“Hop in,” she says.
The look of surprise on my face makes her laugh.
“Passenger side door is broken.”
“Oh,” I say sheepishly.
I slide across the worn bench seat, smoothing out the blue flannel blanket which covers various gouges and rips in the Naugahyde as I go. The smell inside the cab reminds me of a thousand pleasant memories.
We lurch forward and I try to conceal my alarm as I notice that Sister Margaret is so short, her feet barely reach the gas and brake pedals.
“Come on, you old bucket of bolts!” she exclaims, giving the steering wheel a sharp rap with the heel of her hand. The truck cannons onto the street, and rounding the corner of the alley, I feel the back end pitch upwards as the back wheel strikes the curb. The cover to the glove compartment flops open. Sister Margaret eyes the cover and then looks at me. I snap the cover closed and give her a hopeful smile.
“This whole outfit is held together by prayer and Scotch tape,” she says with a broad grin.
We wind our way down city streets, Hayes to Baker, and then onto a major thoroughfare, Oak and to another rundown looking area. Murals of colorful graffiti cover many of the dull grey walls of the buildings that otherwise look abandoned.
“How long has your daughter been gone?” she asks.
I recount the events of the previous two weeks. Sister Margaret grimly nods as I talk, as if she’s heard all of this a thousand times before.
“Did the police advise you to call the NCMEC?” she asks.
“What’s that?”
“National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. They can create posters for you that can be distributed nationwide.” Sister Margaret’s voice is dead serious.
“But Robyn’s friend Jenny said she’s in San Francisco.”
“If Robyn got mixed up with prostitution like your P.I. friend suggested, then it’s possible she could already have been moved.”
“Moved?” I ask. My heart thuds in my chest.
“You mentioned BLU BOY?”
I nod.
“He is a pimp,” she says, confirming Bart Strong’s earlier suspicion. “It’s common for pimps to move their girls from city to city to evade law enforcement.
I fight the sting of tears and try swallowing down the burn that flares in my gut.
“But she’s only fifteen,” I say.
“The average age of a teen prostitute on these streets is twelve to thirteen.”
I groan aloud.
“Customers vastly outnumber the prostitutes. For every fifteen hundred girls there are between fifteen and thirty thousand johns. These girls come from all kinds of homes. Neglect, abuse, you name it.”
“There was no abuse or neglect,” I argue.
Sister Margaret sighs. “Society puts