The Vanishing by Bentley Little Page A

before she could go into the supervisor’s office. ‘‘I need to talk to you,’’ she said.
    Holly’s real name was Elaine Peters, and she was indeed a prostitute who at that time had been working the park. When Jan had been counseling her, Holly had been pregnant, but then she’d called one day and said she’d had an abortion and found a new job and didn’t need or want the state’s help anymore. Jan suspected Holly’s pimp was behind this, and she made several attempts to meet again with Holly, but all of her efforts were rebuffed, and she finally gave up, sucked back into the endless stream of cases that flowed through Social Services.
    Carrie explained her interest in the case, told Jan about Rosalia and Juan, and said that she’d like to meet with Holly if she could.
    Jan was by the book. She went to Sanchez first, showed the supervisor her copy of the tabloid and explained the situation. He gave her permission to contact Holly once again and allowed Carrie to tag along. ‘‘This is not Juan,’’ he told Carrie, ‘‘but I understand your interest. I have to admit, I’m curious myself. Keep me up on what’s going on.’’
    ‘‘We will,’’ she promised.
    The phone number they had on file was no longer in service. Although Jan searched through the records using Holly’s real name as well as various permutations of both her legal and street monikers, she came up with nothing. She was willing to wait, talk with some other caseworkers and come at this from another direction tomorrow,but Carrie wanted to act now, and Jan agreed to accompany her to the listed address.
    Sanchez not only allowed them to take two hours but let them check a car out of the pool—an offer that shocked them both. Carrie quickly went to the bathroom while Jan printed out a map to the location, and after arranging for each of their calls to be covered, they were off.
    Jan drove. It was a twenty-minute drive through some of the worst areas of the city, and Carrie was grateful that the other social worker was with her. Even after five years, she still didn’t feel comfortable going into really rough neighborhoods alone.
    And this neighborhood was rough.
    She’d known it even before leaving the office, but it was confirmed when two police cars roared past them a few blocks from Holly’s last-known address, sirens on, lights flashing, both coming to a screeching halt in the middle of the street, four officers jumping out, weapons drawn.
    Jan quickly turned onto another street. ‘‘Maybe we should head back,’’ she suggested. ‘‘We can come here tomorrow.’’
    It was the logical thing to do. And, in the grand scheme of things, what difference did a day make? Still, Carrie felt a strong, almost compulsive need to continue on. ‘‘How close is Holly’s place?’’
    ‘‘Two or three blocks.’’
    ‘‘That’s far enough away, isn’t it? If we come from the side or the back and stay off that street?’’
    ‘‘There’s no guarantee she still lives there. Or that she’s even home.’’
    Carrie held up the tabloid photo.
    Jan sighed. ‘‘All right, you’re right. I need to know, too.’’
    They parked on the side of the three-story tenement building, alongside graffiti that seemed to be a list of gang members’ nicknames: Shorty . Big Boy . Daddy . Cupid . On the sidewalk, against the wall, a skinny black man lay in a fetal position, only the twitching of his feet indicating that he was still alive. From the distance came the sound of sirens and, closer in, gunfire.
    Jan reached into her handbag before opening the car door. ‘‘Do you have pepper spray?’’
    Carrie nodded.
    ‘‘Get it out.’’ She locked the car and, armed, the two of them hurried past the twitching man, around the corner and into the building. The interior of the tenement house was, if possible, even worse than the exterior. Away from the public, taggers had felt free to cover every available inch of space with spray painted words