by Flora, Kate;
He left a message for Wink to check out the pin when he had a chance. The way things were going, Wink would get to it by Christmas.
When Kyle and Perry got in, they’d organize a visit to Ida Mae Wilson’s neighbors. He could have patrol do a canvass, but he thought they needed to see people’s faces and reactions, press them for more information if necessary. How could those girls be held prisoner, and another likely murdered there, without someone noticing something?
His voicemail was jammed with question from reporters, messages he barely listened to before deleting them. Vince Melia or Captain Cote, more likely Cote, who loved the press, would do the press conference about last night’s horror show.
He sorted through his messages, hoping there might be something that would give them a lead about Shelley’s identity. It was a whole lot of nothing. The crazies had come out and not much else. He was listening to voicemail as he sorted the Pepto-Bismol colored slips, an activity so rote he almost missed a message from DeSpain. It was brief and to the point. “This is DeSpain. There’s something I need to tell you. Call me.” And a number.
Burgess didn’t know whether DeSpain was nocturnal, as his late arrival at Sweety’s suggested. Nor did he care. So far, DeSpain was the closest thing they had to a witness.
Before he could return that call, he got a summons to the chief’s office. He hoped he didn’t look as dissolute as he felt. He hadn’t looked in a mirror since he left home, but that one had given him nothing but bad news. He’d rushed out without shaving. His shoes were muddy from tromping through the woods. There was blood on his shirt cuffs from his two accident victims. His shoulders were hunched with weariness and the dark circles beneath his eyes looked like holdovers from his football days. He believed in matching his appearance to the dignity of the job and hated to present like this. Nothing he could do about it now. He had clothes in his locker but he wasn’t about to keep the chief waiting while he mowed his face and improved his sartorial splendor.
He assumed the chief was looking for an update about last night’s activities, but the chief was focused on something else. There was a man he didn’t know waiting with the chief, a man the chief introduced as “Robert Bailey, Senator Bailey’s brother,” adding, “Mr. Bailey has some concerns about yesterday’s traffic stop.”
Bailey was exactly what he would have expected. Impeccably dressed in gray slacks, a silky navy polo under a navy blazer with about a hundred gold buttons. Boat shoes without socks. Thick silver hair moussed into place. Pointy nose and pointy chin. The beginnings of broken veins on his nose and cheeks from too many cocktail hours.
Bailey didn’t offer to shake a mere peon’s hand and Burgess didn’t take the offered seat. Instead, he said, “I don’t want to be rude, Mr. Bailey, why are you here?”
“Joe,” the chief said in his ‘let’s sooth the raging beast’ voice, “I know you think Captain Cote was wrong to…”
“Chief. Mr. Bailey. I have no idea what Captain Cote did or did not do with respect to the arrest of Mr. Bailey’s daughter I made yesterday. I’ve been tied up on a homicide and an incident involving a severed head and hands and four brutalized children who were chained up in a basement.”
Yes. Okay. He said it because it was true and to make Bailey flinch. Remind the man—and the chief—that police did serious work here. That his workday wasn’t about stopping pretty girls and giving them a hard time. The chief had picked a damned poor time to chastise him about a traffic stop, when he had to get through his messages, write reports about last night, and get back out there to look for a killer. Burgess really didn’t care how out of line he was. He couldn’t be more out of line than a parent, and a department, who allowed that girl to get back behind the wheel today. He was wearing himself and his crew out, dealing with horrific things and neglecting his family, to keep people safe, while this is what the chief was concerned about? Bambi might well have killed herself. She could easily have killed that man in the truck as well.
“Now look, Joe,” the chief began. “I know you’re wrapped up in this homicide, but…”
Burgess held up a hand. “Hold on.”
Bailey gave the chief a “do something with your underling” look, and the chief frowned.
Burgess said, “I’m not being insubordinate, sir. I’m asking because on my way back from searching a crime scene this morning with a K9, I came upon a serious vehicle crash involving Mr. Bailey’s daughter. Mr. Bailey, are you unaware that your daughter, while looking at her phone instead of the road, drove into another vehicle this morning and then crashed her car into a tree?”
He gave the location and Sergeant Russell’s number. “She was still alive when I handed the scene over to patrol, with the fire department and medcu en route. I am very sorry to be the one who brings you this news, Mr. Bailey.”
The chief managed a “You can go, Burgess,” as he and Bailey dove for their phones.
Burgess went.
He got no pleasure from encounters like this. He wasn’t on a crusade to reform policing in his city. He didn’t long to work his way up the food chain. He didn’t care about bars on his collar or fancy clusters on his hat. He cared about justice, and got annoyed when suck-up bullshit wasted his time and got in the way of that.
By the time he was back at his desk, he’d recognized his bad mood for what it was. He needed rest and food. If he couldn’t have that, he needed to be making progress in his investigation. Also, despite his frustration with indulgent parents like Bailey, he was also the parent of two teens and a man who’d seen the tragic results of adolescents’ belief in their immortality over and over again. He hadn’t knelt by that crashed car, holding his handkerchief against Bambi’s face and talking to her purely out of duty. She was someone’s child and she was hurt.
Okay. Bambi had occupied real estate in his head long enough. He had other things to worry about.
First, he was going to do something about his appearance so the public didn’t see a disheveled bum when they looked at him. If they were going to canvass Ida Mae Wilson’s neighborhood, he didn’t want to scare off anyone who answered their door. He’d never be slim and dapper like Bailey, and the day he moussed his hair would be a cold one in hell, but he could look better than this. He got clean clothes and shoes from his locker. Peering into the mirror as he mowed his face, he saw a man with gray streaked dark hair that badly needed cutting and a scar that made him look scarier than he was. He dressed, tossed his old clothes back in his locker, and put two more white cotton handkerchiefs in his pocket. He’s been stanching the wounds of this city for decades with these. He hoped this case wasn’t the time he finally had to wave one in surrender.
He went back to his desk, found the message from DeSpain, and called him back.
He got a sleepy, “Hey?”
“Detective Burgess, Mr. DeSpain. You left me a message?”
DeSpain groaned. “Oh, God. I am so sorry, Detective. I didn’t quite tell you the truth yesterday.”
Burgess waited.
“I wasn’t the one who did Shelley’s work. It was Kit, she’s a girl I’m training. I didn’t mention her because she’s not licensed yet. After you left I got to thinking that you probably really didn’t care about that. So I spoke to her, and she’ll be glad to tell you anything she knows. I can’t say it’s more than I know, but girls, you know. They talk.”
The guy could have told them this last night. But better late than never. There had been no time to follow up yet anyway. Burgess got her name and contact information and thanked DeSpain for his honesty and concern.
“Sure, sure. Better if I’d told you right away, huh? But hey. It’s something. I think maybe she knows Shelley’s last name.”
Nineteen
As he was setting down the phone, Janice approached his desk, holding a message slip. She halted a few feet away, as if afraid to come any closer. “I don’t bite,” he said, holding out his hand for the slip. “Really, Janice. I wish you’d stop treating me like I
might.”
“Sorry,” she said. “Sorry.” She hurried away.
“You’re not winning that one,” Kyle said, suddenly appearing in his quiet way.
“Least of my battles,” Burgess said. “You get some rest?”
“More than you, I’ll bet.”
Burgess nodded. “Forgot I had a date with Kiki this morning. And things have gone downhill from there. Except maybe not.”
He told Kyle about the little pin Kiki had found, Bambi’s accident, and his pleasant visit with Bambi’s father and the chief.
“So where’s the good news in all that?”
“DeSpain called, plagued by a guilty conscience.”
“We could use more of those.”
“Agreed. Seems he wasn’t quite truthful about who did Shelley’s artwork. His apprentice, or whatever they’re called, did it. He thinks she may know more about Shelley. Like her last name. I was about to call her when Janice appeared. And you.”
“I don’t bite,” Kyle said. “So what are we doing today?”
Burgess glanced down at the note. “One of us is going to Augusta.”
“I nominate Stan.”
“Me, too. Seen him around yet?”
“Seen who?” Perry said, appearing behind Kyle.
“Whom,” Burgess said.
“You can be a real pain sometimes, you know that, Joe?”
“I’ve been told. So Stan, you up for a trip to Augusta?”
Perry made a face. “Do I have to, Dad?”
“Yes, Son. You have to.”
“It’s just a head. Why can’t he send a report? Why does someone have to be there?”
“Because that’s what we do, Stan,” Kyle said. “Look on the bright side. You get a road trip. A nice drive on a beautiful summer day. The company of the lovely Dani. Several hours without Joe telling you what to do.”
“When you put it that way, how can I say no?” Perry held his hand out for the note Burgess was offering, saying when the ME was going to deal with Mermaid, or Shelley’s, head.
“How are the girls doing?” Kyle asked.
“When I swung by this morning, two were doing okay, two in ICU. The ER doc, Dr. Cohen says she’s optimistic about one of them. Other is touch and go. I’ll swing back later, see if they able to talk to us, and what language they speak so we can get a translator.”
“So how do we catch this fucker?”
“One step at a time?” Burgess said.
“Christ!” Perry said, finally reading the note. “Lee wants us there in an hour. In summer traffic. Nothing like giving us notice or anything. Catch you old farts later.” He sketched a wave and was gone.
Kyle looked at Burgess. “I am not an old fart.”
“No, Terry, you are not. Kid’s just trying to piss you off. Looks like it’s working, too.”
Kyle threw himself into a chair. “Okay, Fearless Leader. Where do we start?”
“I’m going to call this woman. Kit. The one DeSpain was training. Go talk to her. See if she has anything for us. Then we’re going to go back out to Ida Mae Wilson’s neighborhood and knock on some doors.”
Burgess made the call. Kit was working, so, trying not to get their hopes up and failing miserably, they headed back to Sweety’s. He’d planning on spending a quiet hour writing reports, but this felt urgent. Who knew when they’d have another chance to talk to her?
Burgess was driving. Kyle was tipped back in his seat with his eyes closed. Without opening his eyes, Kyle said, “Why did Hooper lead us to that house? You believe he didn’t know he was being followed?”
“Maybe he was in over his head and didn’t know what else to do? Because he’s definitely in over his head.”
“Speaking of heads, are you really comfortable sending Stan to Augusta?”
“I’m training him to take your place when you take mine.”
“And you retire? Don’t even joke about it.”
“Not sure I am joking. I couldn’t get moving this morning. We’re all tired, but it feels like more than that. There’s no second wind and I’m not thinking clearly. I’m sure there are things we should be doing. Things I’m forgetting. I’m used to having Vince as a sounding board and…well, I’m not sure how to put it. It’s like he’s absent. I think he came back too soon and he doesn’t have the stamina yet. It feels like no one is running interference for us. And like the brass isn’t being kept up on what’s going on. The thing with the chief this morning is a good example.”
Burgess braked for a man in a wheelchair who was crossing the street. The man waved and blew Burgess a kiss. His city, his characters.
“The thing with the chief this morning?” Kyle prompted.
“We’re up all night with that scene. Then, when he calls me in, I think he’s looking for a firsthand update, right? But no. He’s got Robert Bailey with him. The Senator’s brother? And what they want to do is rip me a new one because I had the guy’s daughter arrested. Never mind that she was eating cereal with both hands, almost hit me head-on, then rolled up on the sidewalk and hit a stroller. Luckily the mom had just picked up the baby.”
He was venting. He knew that. But Kyle was the best person to vent to. Kyle would listen, affirm, question, or tell Burgess he was full of it. They did that for each other.
“Not a word about last night’s horror show, or how those girls are doing. This is national news stuff and what does he say? Nothing. The ironic thing is that somehow things got fixed with Bambi Bailey’s arrest, something Cote did, I guess. So Bailey’s daughter was driving again this morning. Today she was speeding while looking at her phone, sideswiped a truck, and drove full tilt into a tree. And I was the first one on scene. The chief and Bailey are trying to take me to task for getting her arrested yesterday and neither one of them knew she’d been in an accident today. I don’t even know if she survived. She was alive when I left, but it was bad, Ter. Very bad. So, yeah, I lost it.”
He stopped at a light, seething. Someone knocked on his window. He looked sideways and saw a kid named Jason, a foster-care waif he’d been watching for years, who was really coming along now that he was in a stable and loving foster family.
Burgess drove through the light and pulled over, rolling down his window. “Hey, Jase. How are things?”
Jason had been a scrawny, asthmatic kid when Burgess last saw him, when Jason was an invaluable witness in a difficult case. Now Jason was filling out and looked great. “Things are good, Sergeant Burgess. Our baby is walking, and we’re maybe going to move to a house.”
Burgess loved hearing “our baby,” and the way it meant Jason was so much a part of his family. “Still in Portland?” he said.
“My parents are still looking.” The boy looked down at his shoes and then straight at Burgess, his smile huge. “I’m being adopted.”
Burgess reached out and dragged the boy into a hug. “What great news, Jase. So glad you told me.”
“Gotta go,” the boy said. “My mom gets worried if I don’t come home on time.” He sketched a wave and headed off on his scooter.
“There’s a Joe Burgess success story,” Kyle said. “Two years ago he was headed for Juvie.”
Burgess knew Jason’s turnaround wasn’t due to him, but seeing the boy reminded him how connected to this city he was. “Okay,” he said. “So maybe I won’t retire this week.”
“That’s good news for my blood pressure.”
“You may have to be the brains of the operation.”
“Thought I already was.”
Much of the time these streets were a map of the crimes they’d investigated, the people they passed a familiar roster of bad guys. But there were also moments like this one with Jason Stetson. Or yesterday at Melina’s deli. They were the good people who reminded them why they did this job.
Kit, the tattoo apprentice, was a small, wiry woman. Her cropped black hair was streaked with electric blue and green, and her arms were a swarm of sea creatures and roses. She was willing to share what she k
new, she said, if they assured her that DeSpain wouldn’t get into trouble, but she was in the middle of a complicated design. She stepped away from her client, and motioned for them to come outside. “Sorry to drag you out here like this. I thought I’d be done, but he changed his mind. Now I’m going to be at least another hour. Can I call you when I’m done?”
Some days were like this. They could have pressured her, but it was always better to have willing witnesses. Burgess pushed his frustration away and gave her his card. “It’s important,” he said. “Call us as soon as you’re available, okay?”
As they climbed back in the truck, Kyle said, “I’m hungry. Can we go somewhere and eat. Please?”
His toast was somewhere in the distant past, before K9 Kiki and Bambi and the chief and Robert Bailey. Besides, he had to keep Kyle fed. Someone in this operation had to some wits about him. It was a good way to kill the hour until Kit was done. An hour wasn’t enough time to start their door-to-door. “Sure. Where do you want to go?”
Kyle chose Italian, and Burgess was reminded how much he loved a big, oily sub full of cheese and cold cuts. It had been ages since he’d had one. Chris was watching his diet and feeding him a lot of vegetables. Kyle ate spaghetti and meatballs. A giant plate of spaghetti and meat balls. Burgess surrounded himself with napkins and bit into his sub. It was just as good as he remembered. The place was dark and restful, despite being crowded, providing a nice normal interval between where they’d been and where they were going. Cops learned to take advantage of those down times.
He was finishing his coffee when Kyle said, “I have a bad feeling about this woman. Kit. I think we’d better not wait for her to call.”
Burgess trusted Kyle’s instincts. They paid and hurried to the truck. It had only been forty-five minutes, but Burgess had caught Kyle’s sense of urgency. He pushed his way through traffic, doing a ten minute trip in five. He rocked to a stop at the curb and Kyle jumped out. He ducked inside, and was out a minute later. “She’s gone,” he said. “Guy inside says she took off just as soon as we left. Says he’s got no address and he doesn’t think DeSpain does either.”