The Fort (Aric Davis)

wasn’t getting yet. Van Endel took a pen and a tattered Moleskine from his nightstand. “Got an address for me?”
    She rattled it off quickly. Once he had all the details—apartment on the north end, single mother named Samantha Peterson, missing girl named Molly Peterson—he thanked her and hung up the phone.
    Van Endel briefly considered a shower to remove his whiskey-sweat, but decided on cologne instead. He dressed in a black suit that was as comfortable as his favorite pair of pajamas but still looked reasonably sharp, then ran a comb through his hair. Given what he’d thrown down before he’d dozed off (he preferred that to “passed out”), he knew he had no right to look as good as he did. He hoisted a smile at the mirror to see if he could carry it off. He supposed he could. And then, just that quick, thoughts of her, of Lex, took the smile off of his face. He left the mirror behind, threw on his shoulder holster, tucked his wallet into the rear right pocket of his pants, and shrugged on his jacket. It was going to be a long night, and probably a long day, but that was OK. This work was everything that he was.
    There were two marked cars parked at the apartment complex, and Van Endel parked his Chevy Caprice behind them before getting out. He gave his notes a look for the address, then saw a uniform he recognized, Don Pratt, standing by a door across the lot. Van Endel opened the door and climbed from the car, then closed the door quietly, before rubbing his palms together and walking to the uni. Waking up was hard to do. “How’s it shaking, Donny?”
    “Mrs. Peterson is inside losing her shit, Dick. Just so you know. And thanks for asking. I’ve been good. My kids are at summer camp all week, and I plan on fucking my wife every chance I get until they get back.”
    “This must be throwing a monkey wrench in that plan,” said Van Endel, grinning. “We’ll get you back to it soon.”
    “Hey, no sweat on my end,” said Don. “I had to work tonight either way, may as well be doing something. You talk to Phil?”
    “Yeah, briefly. I didn’t get a progress report or anything, though. I just know that Sarah’s in a holding pattern. What’s your take on our missing kid?” He eyed the Petersons’ door.
    “Kid’s gone,” said Don. “Aside from that, tough to tell you. Mom thinks they were at the drive-in, but Molly never came home. Sorry, missing girl’s name is Molly, not sure if you had that. In any case, Mrs. Peterson called it in, and we were here a little later. Once we figured out that Mrs. Peterson most likely was not full of shit, I put in for a detective. Hope you don’t have plans.”
    “Only plan I had was sleeping one off,” said Van Endel. “I’m going to go talk to the missus, you call me once your week in paradise is over, we’ll hit the Shipwreck and get a beer.”
    “That sounds great, Dick. I’ll keep you posted.”
    On his way into the apartment building, Van Endel walked into the doorframe, hard, with his shoulder. Take a deep breath, you’re doing fine. Willing the booze away wasn’t going to happen, but he could at least ignore it. Feeling a bit more together now—the bump with the frame might have been a good thing—Van Endel saw another uniform at the top of the steps, this one a woman he didn’t recognize. He walked to her, showed her his badge, and she opened the door for him.
    The apartment smelled like cigarettes and had amateurish paintings hanging on the walls. Van Endel stopped briefly to look at one—it was signed MP and was of a sunset—then stepped into the kitchen. Mrs. Peterson was sitting at a table, smoking a cigarette, and talking to a uniform. But the talking stopped when they saw Van Endel.
    “Mrs. Peterson?” he asked, and she nodded. Van Endel extended a hand that she shook with her own cold and clammy hand, her fingers small and thin. “May I have a seat?”
    “Of course, and please, call me Sam.”
    Van Endel sat and nodded to the uniform at the table, a vet named Walt Summers. Walt and Dick had been to a few of these over the last couple of years, late-night calls that never seemed to turn out how anyone wanted, and almost always found their end in the expansive lawns of Riverside Park.
    “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Peterson, though I can’t help but imagine we could do so under better circumstances. I’m Detective Richard Van Endel, Dick for short. I want you to tell me everything that you can recall about