by Gregory Ashe
He parked four blocks down, in the shade of a weeping willow. The swampy heat made his shirt stick to the seat, and he wiped his face and tried to think. No security cameras. Because this was a decent part of town. Eventually, something bad would happen—a rape, a mugging—and the owners would be afraid of a lawsuit and they’d put in a few cameras. But not yet. And that meant Hazard had hit his first dead end.
He ran through everything again, trying to see if he’d made an error. He had wanted to see how Dulac left the building; his car was still in the lot, so if Dulac had rented a car or borrowed a car—hell, for that matter, stolen a car—it could make finding him much, much easier. Hazard thought for a few more minutes, and then he got out of the minivan and hiked back toward Dulac’s building. New construction lined this street: buildings with stucco and glass and chrome, all of it mixed use, nail salons and comic book shops side by side with condominiums. The breeze carried a hint of Dawn dish soap. In the park across the street, he identified the source of the smell: a gaggle of kids, most of them barely older than Evie, were playing on a Slip ‘N Slide while two older women watched. Hazard judged from the suds on the polyethylene that the soap was working as a lubricant.
Half a block down from Dulac’s apartment, though, was a corner store that had clearly survived gentrification; the molded plastic sign just said FOOD in red letters on a yellow background, and security cameras on the walls pointed up the cross streets. The inside of the store was packed with rows of shelving: Dinty Moore stewed beef and Bubble Tape and sanitary napkins and a Hello Kitty backpack bristling with dust. Behind the counter, a woman in a hijab wore a name tag that said Liyana.
“I need to see your security footage,” Hazard said. “I’m a private investigator, and I’m working a case on a missing person.”
The woman stared back at him, her dark eyes blank and hard. Seconds dragged by.
“Police?” she said.
Hazard shook his head.
Another minute dragged past. The shop was relatively dark, but where July sun came through a window, motes of dust drifted. The air smelled like freshly sanded wood and a mélange of spices—anise and cumin, and definitely more—that Hazard judged came from a pot bubbling on a hot plate behind the register.
Hazard pulled out cash again. “I offered the last guy two hundred.”
She nodded.
Counting out the bills, Hazard passed them over. She shut the door, locked it, and flipped the sign. Then she led him into the back, into a cramped office with a desk and filing cabinets and a Pack N Play and a Valentine’s Day card filled with flowing script in what Hazard guessed was Punjabi or Urdu. The MacBook that she set on the desk looked brand new, and she scrolled and clicked easily through a maze of options.
“What day?”
“Wednesday. Maybe Thursday too, but let’s start with Wednesday.”
She clicked once more, and two separate videos began streaming, each filling half the screen. Hazard took the seat when she offered it and worked his way through the video. He assumed Dulac would be coming down Barnard, the bigger of the two cross streets, and so he paused the second feed and sped up the recording of Barnard. Some of the cars were easy to dismiss because they didn’t look anything like Dulac’s sedan—panel trucks, minivans, an aging Chrysler convertible that went back and forth a few times, the woman behind the wheel looking painfully lost. Who the hell would buy a convertible in central Missouri, he had no idea. At 06:58:12, Dulac’s car passed the corner market. Hazard switched over to the other feed, watched the vehicle turn into the apartment lot, and disappear. He stayed on this feed now, watching the sped-up footage until noon. Lots of sedans on the residential road. Lots of minivans. Another convertible, a Chrysler again. But nothing he could connect to Dulac. He went back and watched the same stretch of footage on the Barnard feed.
Dulac had never left the building. Or, better said, he had obviously left at some point. But he hadn’t left, on foot or in a vehicle, in a way that the cameras here had recorded. Hazard pushed back from the desk.
Then he stopped. He restarted the Barnard feed and watched the Chrysler meander back and forth on the early morning footage. The video quality wasn’t amazing, but he could make out some of the license plate. It was the woman behind the wheel, though, who held his attention. He didn’t recognize her, and he could just see enough of her hunched over the wheel to give a basic description: dark hair, a big woman. But something about her tickled the back of Hazard’s brain. Switching over to the second camera’s footage, Hazard scrolled forward until he saw the Chrysler convertible again. The time stamp said 08:01:00. The car was pulling out of the lot at Dulac’s apartment building.
Maybe it was just a coincidence.
But she had looked lost in the first camera footage.
Still, a part of Hazard’s brain argued, it could be a coincidence. It’s early, she’s still waking up, she’s coming to help her sister or her daughter or her friend. Maybe she hasn’t been there before. Maybe it’s a mild emergency.
But.
He watched the footage, slowing it, watching it again, slowing it even further, watching it again. When she left, she drove up the street, straight towards the corner market. The camera captured her head-on, but the quality still wasn’t ideal. Yes, the dark hair, the shoulders, something about the face—Hazard could almost place it. He still couldn’t get the full plate number. She was still draped over the wheel, like she was sick or hurt.
And then it clicked. He remembered this woman. She was the nurse from Wahredua Regional, the one who had been taking care of Cynthia right before Cynthia killed herself with poison that someone had smuggled into the hospital. An inside job, Hazard had been almost certain.
He worked his way free from behind the desk and sprinted for the door. He was pretty sure she was doing some smuggling again, only this time, she was smuggling Dulac to safety.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
JULY 5
FRIDAY
1:53 PM
SOMERS’S STOMACH WAS a gurgling, grumbling mess by the time he stepped inside Dynamo Dill’s. He’d tried to go before the breakfast rush, but he’d been too late. He’d waited for the crowd to die down, and then, just when the breakfast rush had ended, a patrol car had pulled into a disabled parking spot. He’d been walking toward Dill’s when he spotted the car, and he recognized Carlson and Nickels from a distance. Nickels looked up and swept her gaze down the street, and for a second all Somers could do was keep walking, keeping his attention on the middle distance, just a normal day, just a guy in a panda shirt taking a walk. Nickels and Carlson went into Dill’s, and they were there for the rest of the morning. By the time they left, the lunch rush was happening, and by the time the lunch rush was over, Somers’s stomach was eating him from the inside out.
The bell jangled as Somers stepped inside, and he was met by the smell of fresh-baked bread, hot meat, and pepperoncini. And, of course, dill pickles. Somers wasn’t sure if the owner, whose name was Dill, had decided to feature pickles in his sandwiches because of the connection. The store had two parts: a grocery area up front, and a sandwich counter in back. As far as Somers was concerned, it was one of the best places in the city to get a sandwich, although Hazard refused to try it. For a long time, it had just been called Dill’s; then, when Somers has been working Smithfield on patrol, Dill’s third wife had convinced him to add Dynamo. The third wife had gone, but Dynamo had stayed.
Somers moved past the register, where a pimply girl was biting her lip as she pasted plastic gems to her nails, past the wire racks of groceries, past the refrigerated units, heading straight for the sandwich counter in back. He felt like one of those cartoon characters who smell something really good, and their feet go up, and they just float along on the smell.
Connie was standing behind the sandwich counter, although the store was empty. He was almost the same age as Somers, but their birthdates were far apart enough that they’d been in different
grades. Connie glanced at Somers, and his dark eyes didn’t change. He just picked up a mini loaf of Italian, cut it open, and worked one glove inside, pulling out lumps of bread that he set in a red-check paper basket. When he had hollowed out enough of the loaf, he stirred a spoon through a pot of bubbling red sauce and began pulling up meatballs. Then he added the meatball sub to the paper basket, poured some more sauce over the bread he’d taken out of the sub, and topped all of it with fresh mozzarella. He popped it on a conveyor belt that ran through a toaster oven, and then he leaned on the counter and stared at Somers.
Somers grinned. “Should I have said, ‘the usual’?”
“What is your dumb ass doing in here? Uncle Dill is going to kill me. He’s sure as hell going to kill you.”
“I like the twist curls.”
“Don’t talk about my hair.”
“Fade’s getting kind of, uh, not fadey, though.”
“What did I just say?”
“Were Carlson and Nickels looking for me?”
Connie rolled his eyes.
“Ok, ok,” Somers said. “I had to ask.”
“Look, I appreciate the way we used to do things. I really do. Uncle Dill does too. But he will lose his shit if he finds out you’re in here.”
The way they had used to do things was simple: they had watched out for each other. Somers had been new to Smithfield, still learning the ropes as a cop, and facing the hardest and most dangerous area of the city. Connie had started working with Dill, and they’d come under pressure from a group of overly confident assholes who thought they could force out Connie and Dill as part of a redevelopment scam. Connie had helped Somers stay alive—literally, a couple of times—in those first few years, and Somers had talked to his dad and gotten the redevelopment assholes sent packing. Right then, though, with Connie’s dark eyes on him, Somers felt like that had all been a long time ago, and he thought maybe he’d made a mistake coming here.
The toaster oven dinged, and Connie turned and slid the paper basket onto a tray. “You want something to drink?”
“Yeah. Jesus, yes.”
“Then your own dumb ass can grab it.” Carrying the tray, Connie headed toward a door marked STAFF. Somers grabbed a liter of Aquafina. And then he grabbed a liter of Pepsi. And then he grabbed a second liter of water and hurried after Connie.
The staff room turned out to be a pair of desks pushed up against the wall, a card table with aluminum banding, and a bean bag that, honest to God, Somers was pretty sure had survived the 1970s. Connie set the sandwich on the table, and Somers took a seat, thumping the water and soda down next to him. Connie raised an eyebrow.
“I’m going to pay,” Somers said as he twisted the cap off the Aquafina. Then he drank half of it in one go.
“Ok,” Connie said, stretching, popping his back, playing with his short, stiff twists of hair. “You want to tell me?”
“Honestly, I have no idea. You want to tell me?”
“A couple of guys have said you’ve got drugs you’re trying to move.”
Somers picked up the meatball sub: the bread was toasty, the cheese was golden, the meatballs were veal and pork and sausage. But it was the sauce. Italian grandmothers, good goddamn luck. Dill and Connie’s red sauce was the best thing he’d ever tasted. Between bites, he said, “Drugs?”
“Dope. Which, for your white ass, means heroin.”
Somers rolled his eyes and took another huge bite.
“You’re going to make yourself sick. Drinking all that water and eating like that. You’re going to explode.”
“I’ll risk it,” Somers said around a mouthful of veal.
“You’re nasty.”
“But you missed me,” Somers said after swallowing, and then he wiped his mouth.
Connie rolled his eyes again. “I’m not trying to be an asshole, but you can’t hide out here.”
“I know. I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t. Don’t make that face.”
“You hid out here when the Marquez brothers were looking for you.”
“I was young,” Somers said and took another huge bite.
“Your balls hadn’t dropped.”
“My balls have now officially dropped.” He chewed, swallowed, and said, “I just need a few things.”
Connie rolled a finger.
“Phone.”
Connie pointed at one of the desks.
“Shoe polish.”
Connie blinked.
“I’m kind of, you know, noticeable.”
“Do not tell me your stupid, stupid ass is thinking about—”
“No, no. For my hair. The clothes are helping.”
“That big string of mozzarella on your chin is helping.”
“But I need something for my hair.”
“How did you get into college? Good Lord, you are stupid sometimes.”
“But you missed me,” Somers said with another grin. He dove back into the meatball sub.
“Nasty,” Connie repeated as he stood. “Stay here.”
Somers had finished the sub and, although he wouldn’t give Connie the satisfaction of admitting it, was feeling a little bit nasty. All the water and then the huge sub might have been a bit too much. He eyed the pile of sauce and bread and toasty cheese, which was kind of a bonus treat, and considered whether he could manage it. Maybe a few bites—
“No,” Connie said, picking up the tray, and shaking the paper basket into the trash.
“That was the best part!”
“The best part is the meatball sandwich, dumbass.” Connie slapped a box onto the table. Under the dust, the words REVLON COLORSILK stared back at Somers, and below those words, a lady was having way too much fun smiling and tossing her hair and really making a whole production out of it. “Do not use shoe polish on your hair.”
“I was trying to improvise.”
“Dumbass.”
“I thought it was pretty clever.”
“Dumb. Ass.”
“I feel like you and Emery would have a lot to say to each other.”
To Somers’s surprise, Connie grinned. “I always liked that miserable motherfucker.”
“Great. I’ll set up a tea party.” Somers grabbed the box and pointed to a door. “Bathroom?”
Connie nodded.
Somers had never dyed his hair before, but he was fairly sure he didn’t need the gloves. It was more complicated than he’d realized, and by the time he’d finished with the cream color developer and the applicator cap and the colorant, by the time he’d snipped and mixed and combed and brushed, he was pretty sure he was never going to dye his hair again. He scrubbed up as best he could and then, staring at his hands, realized the gloves might have been a good idea.
He had twenty-five minutes to kill, so he decided to make his most important phone call. When he stepped out of the bathroom, Connie was gone, probably back to work, so Somers sat at the desk. He found an ancient phone book in the bottom drawer, flipped through until he found the Wahredua A+ Storage and U-Haul Rental, and dialed.
“Wahredua A+ Storage,” a woman said in a gruff, smoker’s voice.
“This is a Rob Mattson at U-Haul regional. Do you want to tell me why the Iowa police are crawling up my ass?”
“What are you—”
“You’ve got fifteen seconds to put me on the phone with your manager before I come down there, shut down the whole fucking franchise, and put everybody out of a job.”
“She’s not here,” the woman said. “My sister’s not here. Jenny’s—” Whatever the woman had been about to say, she managed to cut it off.
“Jenny’s off fucking around, is that what you were about to tell me?”
“No, I—”
Somers blew out a breath. “Look, let’s start over. It’s not your fault Jenny is a royal fuckup. I’ve been pissy all day because the Ames police called me at the crack of dawn, demanding records for one of our trucks that’s sitting in a schoo
l parking lot packed with crack cocaine. It’s taken me this long just to figure out where the fucking thing was registered. I’m in Columbia, so I’m handling this whole shit show over the phone. Look, I just need you to check the records on a truck you rented to—” Somers hemmed as though he were searching. “In my computer, it says Gray Dulac. You’ve got one for that name?”
From the other end of the call came frantic clicking. “Yes, yes, right here, Mr. Mattson.”
“Just Rob is fine. I was a royal dick, and I mostly wanted to take it out on Jenny for fucking over my chance at the back nine today. What do you have?”
“Well, I have the pickup paperwork. It was rented to Mr. Dulac, but he added an additional driver, and that was Nicolas Flores. Mr. Dulac got the truck Wednesday morning. The rental was for one day; it was supposed to be back that night, but he called and extended it.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute. My computer says this thing was never picked up. That’s what I’ve been telling the Ames police all morning. I’ve been telling them some asshole boosted it from our lot, loaded it with drugs, and drove it straight to that school. Now you’re telling me somebody picked up that car and signed for it? Mr. Flores?”
“No, Mr. Mattson—”
“Just Rob.”
“No, Rob, it was Mr. Dulac, the man who placed the initial reservation.”
At that moment, Connie opened the door, stuck his head into the room, and started to laugh. Somers waved furiously, sign language for get the hell out, and Connie just laughed harder as he shut the door.
“Sorry about that,” Somers said. “Mr. Dulac picked up the truck? Did you see him? You got some kind of description I can pass along to the police?”
“Well, I was the one who signed the paperwork with him, so I saw him. I don’t really know. Young guy. Seemed nice enough.”
“You got anything else? Hair? What color was his hair? Or his eyes? Or, Christ, anything I can give these guys?”