Page 47 of Nowhere Good

He prayed it was something—anything—to set him on another track and pressed play. The automated voice said there was only one voicemail, sent in at 12:18 p.m., twenty minutes ago.

The recording played. Muffled voices, like the screams and laughter on a playground. But there was something else too—a jingle of some kind. The sounds of an arcade.

“Just do it,” a girl’s voice was saying.

“No, what if he finds out?” another one said. “We could lose our jobs!”

“We have to tell them!”

“Okay, okay.” There was a pause before the second girl’s voice became clearer. “Um—you need to look into—”

“Someone’s coming,” the other voice whispered, then blurted, “Check Mr. Giggles!”

The line went dead.

Seth sat for a moment, processing it. A prank? No, it sounded like two people trying to discreetly report something. Kids, probably. Teenagers.

“Who the hell is Mr. Giggles?” he asked.

Pereira snorted a laugh. “Um, it’s like a kids’ birthday joint. Think of it like Chuck-E-Cheese.”

“Any idea why someone would report the business?”

Pereira shrugged. “Sorry. I’m sure Yess would have all the gossip, but who knows when he’ll be back from his sub run. Owner’s a friend of the station, though. Norm Stanfield.”

“Norm Stanfield,” Seth said, feeling out the name.

But it was already familiar.

He’d been drilling those lists of names into his brain all morning, but to be sure, he went back into the conference room and grabbed the list of names in relation to the Ellen Harrison case—people who’d owned white vans.

And there, partway down the list, was Norman Stanfield.

Mr. Giggles was a giant green dinosaur with wonky eyes and big, square teeth—sort of like Barney’s cracked-out cousin. The moment Seth entered the building, he was hit with gaudy green lights and smell of pizza. Children screamed and chased each other around the play area in the back. The geometric carpet looked like it hadn’t been updated since the 90s, reminiscent of old movie theaters. Bored teenagers wandered around cleaning garbage in their work uniforms.

When Seth was a kid, he’d be lucky if his mom could afford to rent a bowling alley for a few hours. Pizza parties with all the kids from school were out of the question. This place would’ve been a dream, cracked-out dinosaur and all.

Now, as a disillusioned adult, it felt off-putting and dated.

He scanned the area, hands in the pockets of his slacks, just as a man in his early twenties, face still marred by teenage acne, blocked his view. His nametag read: STEPHEN S, MANAGER. “Sir, can I help you?” His eyes found the shield on Seth’s belt. “Oh, um, everything okay, Officer? Or Detective?”

“Yeah, I was wondering if the owner was around. Norman Stanfield?”

“Oh, no, Norm’s not in. He’s been taking some time off for the summer. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Actually, I’m following up on a tip. You think you could show me around the back? Maybe Norm has an office?”

Stephen began fidgeting with his hands. “I probably shouldn’t, right? Norm’s not in trouble, is he?”

Seth almost felt bad. Stephen would have every right to deny him, force him to come back with a warrant—a warrant he wouldn’t be able to get at this stage. But Stephen was also too nervous to know any better. Seth needed to gather as much information as he could before knocking on this Norman guy’s door. Even if it meant taking advantage of poor Stephen’s naivety.

“Don’t worry, everything’s fine. I just want to take a look at how things are run around here. Nothing to worry about.”

“Am I allowed to do that?” Stephen asked.

“You’re the manager. You tell me.”

Stephen picked at his nails, shifting his weight, before he conceded. “Okay—follow me.”