Omens (Cainsville 1)

Lucky Penny

The old woman watched the girl pick up her pace, a faint smile on her lips as she clutched her lucky penny. At least she was smiling now, poor thing.

The woman had recognized the girl from the paper. Anyone who'd seen the photos would, despite her clumsy attempts to disguise her identity.

The woman remembered the Larsen case. Her niece had worked at the prison where they'd held Pamela Larsen. Such a nice lady, she'd said. Pretty and quiet and polite. People said he was just as nice, always asking about his wife and his little girl, not caring what happened to him as long as they were safe.

It was a setup, that's what her niece always said. Those murders had the city gripped with fear, so the police needed a scapegoat, and they found a young couple without the money to pay for a proper defense. A travesty of justice. Now their poor daughter was caught up in the mess. Such a shame. Such a tragedy. One that sadly no penny, however bright, could fix.

Chapter Twelve

When I reached the next apartment, I decided that if the penny held any luck, it was clearly running on a delay. The building was fine--a narrow four-story, yellow-brick structure with huge windows facing the tree-lined street. But the neighborhood ... let's just say that it proved I didn't know Chicago as well as I thought.

Thirty years ago, this was probably a great place to live. The ancient oaks arching over the street attested to that, as did the wrought-iron fences around each building. But the sidewalks were crumbling, the iron hadn't been painted in a decade, and there was an air of eerily quiet desolation, as if everyone retreated after work and bolted their doors.

The only people on the street were two girls on a bench. They couldn't have been more than sixteen. No homework bags for them, though. They likely hadn't set foot inside a school in years. It wasn't even nine and they were out there in their microskirts and teased hair and layer cake of makeup, not speaking to one another, just staring at the road. Waiting for some middle-aged man, who'd take them to a cheap motel if they were lucky, but more likely the walkway beside the building, where ten minutes later, they'd emerge, twenty bucks in hand, return to their bench, and start all over again.

A few days ago, I'd have bee

n tempted to give them a hundred each and tell them to go home. Now, I couldn't afford it. Besides, even when I'd had the money, I'd have known it wouldn't help. They'd pocket the cash and stay on the bench. Giving them the address of a shelter wouldn't do any good, either. They knew such things existed. If they were interested, they'd go. They weren't.

The best I could do was acknowledge them as I passed, calling out a cheerful, "Good evening." They turned, met my gaze with blank, soul-stifled stares, then returned to their silent watch.

I climbed the steps. As I did, I caught a glimpse of something on the cement landing. Not another penny, but a design of some sort, glittering just as brightly. When I got to the top, though, I saw only gray concrete.

"Drop something, miss?"

The voice was strong, youthful, but the man stepping through the front door couldn't have been under eighty. He was nearly a half foot shorter than me, with a pointed chin and wisps of white hair salting a freckled bald head. In one bony hand, he clutched an empty cloth grocery bag.

"I thought I saw..." I shook my head. "Long day."

He gave me a look then. I stepped back, thinking he recognized me, but he only squinted nearsightedly, as if making sure I wasn't a neighbor, then bid me a good evening and continued down the steps.

I pretended to fuss with my purse, as if looking for keys. Once he'd disappeared along the walkway beside the building, I backed down the steps, trying to catch the design I'd seen in the light. Nothing.

As I reached for the front door, a whisper drifted over, and I turned to see the two girls. They were on their feet now, fixing me with stares so blank the hair on my neck rose. One said something to the other, her lip curling as she spoke, teeth bared, almost feral. The other shrugged and hitched up her worn, snakeskin belt. I waited for them to snarl a "Whatchya looking at?" but they just stood there and stared back.

Waiting for me to leave.

I stepped inside, closed the door, then counted to fifteen, and peeked out just in time to catch a glimpse of the girls disappearing down the walkway.

They were following the old man. I shook my head. Unless they had a pocketful of Viagra, they weren't getting any business from that old guy.

I might have felt sorry for those two young prostitutes, but remembering that look in their eyes, I wouldn't be eager to meet them wandering around my apartment building.

And I wouldn't be eager to meet them down a dark walkway. Especially if I was a frail old man.

I glanced toward the landlord's door. Just a day ago, if I'd seen two street girls go into the alley behind an old man, I'd have investigated. Made sure he was safe.

So why wasn't I already out that door?

I went out onto the stoop and listened.

Was I hoping not to hear anything, so I had an excuse to go back inside. Focus on my own problems?

I shook my head and jogged down the front steps.

The walkway stretched between two apartments and was little more than an alley, but it had been fancied up with an ivy-covered iron arch, a cobblestone path, and a few flowering bushes.