Miles and I walk up to the front doors of the building and enter the cold lobby. Plastic chairs attached to the floor fill the waiting area, and two slobs mill around the vending machine, no doubt ready to ask people for money. I walk up to the front desk and nod to the lady sitting behind the counter.
“I’m Percy Adams, with the Michael Shelby Private Investigator Agency,” I state as I flash my trainee badge. “I’m here to see….” I turn to Miles.
He holds up his phone and reads, “Roslyn Applegate.”
The correction officer types into her computer. I lean over and catch a glimpse of the screen. It’s a list of inmates a mile long, all sorted in alphabetical order. The lady scans the “A” section and then does so a second time.
“Roslyn Applegate was discharged a month ago,” the officer replies. “She’s no longer here.”
“Do you know who visited her last?” I ask. “Or who came to pick her up when she was discharged?”
“That kind of information is confidential.”
“All right, give us a second. We might need to speak to someone else.”
The lady regards me with a disinterested nod, and I walk back toward the front door with Miles in tow. I stop and turn to him, mindful to keep my voice low.
“I need to look at her computer,” I say.
Miles crosses his arms over his chest. “Why?”
“All the information about the inmates is there. I need to look at the visitor list.”
“Don’t you remember what I said about illegally gathered information?”
“We aren’t looking to take this to court, are we? We’re here to save a girl from the cops. Now isn’t the time to be worried about criminal procedure.”
Miles gets pink in the face and looks away. “R-right. You’re right. We’re not here as investigators.” He rubs at his chin and stares at the front door of the building, his gaze unfocused but his eyes alight with deep thought. Finally he continues with “I’ll cause a distraction. You mess with the computer.”
“All right.”
I don’t ask him his plan—I’m sure he’s smart enough to concoct something without my help—but I do worry about him. I’d hate to have to bail him out of jail for disorderly conduct or some shit.
Miles walks over to the vending machine and engages the two loitering schmoes in conversation. People wait at the jailhouse all the time. Boyfriends. Girlfriends. Gang buddies. Family members. All sorts of people have nothing better to do than wait for someone to be discharged. I suppose it’s for the best—I bet the people with loved ones waiting aren’t the target of our human traffickers.
I bide my time, glancing through my phone. I know these things play games, but all I can find is solitaire.
One angry grunt later and my attention is back on Miles. The two men by the vending machine are in some sort of scuffle. They grab at each other’s shirts in an attempt to fight, though it’s clear they’re both incompetent. I’ve seen schoolyard children with better grace and moxie than these two fools.
The woman behind the counter stands and shouts, “Hey! Stop that!”
The two men ignore her. One punches the other—a weak strike to the chest—and then they grapple close and attempt to go to the ground. I chuckle at the sight.
Things get real when they hit the floor, however. One man gets on top of the other and starts punching down, adding gravity to his blows and aiming for the face. The corrections officer gets out of her chair, pulls her Taser, and then rushes over to the vending machines.
Ah. I see my chance and take it. While she’s distracted, I move over to the counter and click through her computer, searching the list at a fast pace. Instead of taking my time to read the information, I open the camera on my phone and take a picture. Once I have Applegate’s file, I glance over my shoulder.
They’re still busy.
I go to the next inmate, and then the next, taking pictures of their visitation history and status. I’m sure taking a picture of a computer screen doesn’t make for a fantastic photo, but I don’t need to win any awards—all I need is to read the damn information.
I stop when I hit the “M” section of the list, my gaze honing in on one name in particular.
McMillian.
Shannon’s father.
I back away from the computer and stare at my phone as the corrections officer finally puts an end to the fighting by physically breaking it up. Miles jumps to my side, not involved in the conflict, and smiles to me.
“What was that all about?” I whisper.
“I paid them to fight,” Miles replies with a nervous laugh. “Not the cleverest plan, but it worked.”
I chortle to myself and shrug. “Better than nothing, I guess.”
“Yeah, but at the rate we’re spending money, we’re definitely going to need jobs after this.”
A small piece of me laughs. We still have plenty of money. My money, really. I can take a bit of solace knowing that I provide for Miles in some way. And by “provide,” I apparently mean so he can pay two men to fight each other as a form of distraction.
The two men are thrown from the jailhouse, and I watch them go with a smile. They don’t look disgruntled or irritated, and I’m sure that confuses the corrections officer, but that doesn’t matter now. I return to the counter.
“You okay?” I ask her.
The corrections officer nods as she tucks away her Taser. She seems like a tough broad, and when she gives me an I can handle myself look, I believe her.
“I need to speak to McMillian,” I say. “Is he still here, or was he discharged as well?”
She takes a seat and types at her computer. “Yeah,” she replies. “He’s here. One moment.” Using the radio mounted to her shirt, she calls up for McMillian and then
