The Hunting Ground (Deuce Mora Mystery Series Book 2)

by Jean Heller

  31

  I was talking to Ryland about how much of the information from the DCFS files we should use in our next story. We were alone in his office, and my “get” seemed to have assuaged his anger for the time being.

  Ryland said he thought we could use it all, but to be sure he would call Jonathan Bruckner, the paper’s lawyer.

  “I’ll get a legal opinion,” he said. “I won’t let him talk us down from the story.”

  “Okay, I’ll start writing as if we can use it all, and we can edit later.”

  I started out of his office, but he stopped me.

  “Let’s give each of the four children a separate profile to run under your main story,” he said. “Are there photos with the files?”

  My phone rang then, and I answered it without checking the caller ID.

  “Ms. Mora, this is Phyllis Metzler with Cook County Juvenile Court.”

  My throat went dry.

  “Hold on a moment,” I said. I turned to Ryland. “I need to take this. And yes, we have pictures of all four. I’ll give them to Photos.”

  Ryland nodded approval, and I nearly ran out of his office. Was this about Charles? Had something happened to him?

  I went all the way to my desk before I put the phone to my ear again.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I was in the middle of a conference.”

  “Okay,” the woman said. “I’m Phyllis Metzler from Cook County Juvenile Court. We met when you appeared to testify against the boy who attempted to burglarize your home. I presented the reduction of charges to you.”

  “I remember,” I said. “What’s happened?”

  “Well, as you probably know schools are on spring break,” she said.

  I had to admit I did not know that.

  “Easter is next Sunday,” she said, her tone suggesting she couldn’t believe anyone would lose track of something so important.

  “Uh, Ms. Metzler, I don’t mean to be rude, but could you get to the point?”

  “Certainly. Sorry. You remember I explained that we would send the boy to a special school to get him on a positive course? He’s extremely bright and personable, and we thought he was a great candidate for this.”

  “Of course I remember. That’s why I agreed to reduced charges.”

  “Well, some of our more advanced students get to go home for holidays. Easter, Christmas, Thanksgiving, spring break . . .”

  “And?” I was growing impatient.

  “New students don’t. They have to live under supervision at the facility for at least two years before we risk letting them out on their own. And then we have to have proof of excellent supervision while they’re away from the facility.”

  “Ms. Metzler, please,” I said. “What’s happened?”

  “There was some sort of bookkeeping error,” she said. “The boy you sent here was released for spring break. He was transported back to his foster home. When we realized the error, of course we immediately called the foster home, but they said they hadn’t seen him. We paid a visit there, and he wasn’t on the premises. We were hoping he might have come to you. You were, after all, thinking about adopting him at one time.”

  “No, I haven’t seen him,” I said, fighting a growing panic. “When did you leave him at the foster home?”

  “I didn’t leave him there,” she said, and I gave my anger and fear free rein.

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass who left him there,” I said, forcing myself not to shout. “Whoever it was, when was he dropped off?”

  “Day before yesterday. Wednesday. In the early afternoon.”

  I wondered if he had come to my house while I was away, found no one home and left for heaven-knows-where. He needed help, and I wasn’t there to give it to him. I became frightened for him.

  “Perhaps he’s with friends,” Metzler said. “You know any of his friends?”

  “Only the two little boys who were arrested at my house with him,” I said. “And I don’t know their names or where they live.”

  “I don’t know their names, either,” she said.

  “I’ll go right home after work,” I said. “If he shows up, I’ll take care of him.”

  “If he shows up, you will immediately call me,” Metzler ordered in that high-school-English-teacher way I hated.

  “You people didn’t do such a hot job the first time,” I said, striking back.

  “Ms. Mora, if you don’t report him as soon as he shows up, if he shows up, you could be charged with contributing to the delinquency of a minor.”

  “Let me tell you something, Ms. Metzler. If anything happens to that boy, and I find out who’s responsible for this fuckup (I heard her gasp), he’ll rue the day he put that boy in his car. I give you my solemn word on it. You can take that to church Easter morning.”

  32

  It was mid-afternoon when I finished up my story profiling the four children from Ryan Woods thus far identified. Hoping to stave off leaks, I had waited until late afternoon to make the requisite phone calls for comment: the police, the state’s attorney, and, finally, Tony Donato.

  “Okay, yes,” he said, obviously disappointed.

  “On the record?”

  “I guess so,” he said, “but only on the identities. Please be clear I wasn’t the source of the background information on the children.”

  “Already handled,” I said. “You wouldn’t be a suspect in the leak, anyway. You don’t have access to the background information.”

  “When will the story go public?”

  “On the front page of the paper tomorrow. On the Website tonight, late enough the other Chicago media won’t be able catch up.”

  “So I shouldn’t expect any phone calls after I go to bed?”

  “No promises on that. Out of my hands. Sorry.”

  “Okay, I’ll call Malachai’s mother to warn her. That’s the least I can do.”

  I felt bad. “When does her husband get home?” I asked.

  “Sometime tomorrow. She’s gonna have a tough night.”

  Ryland read and signed off on my story.

  “Good rebound, Deuce,” he said, the first civil words he’d spoken to me all day. “You going to be around a while? I need to get the story lawyered.”

  “Uh, no,” I said. I explained the situation with Charles. “I’d like to be home in case he shows up so I can watch him until somebody takes him back to school.”

  Ryland looked hard at my face.

  “This story today came at a bad time for you, I guess,” he said.

  “It hit close to home, yes. I can’t handle the thought of Charles winding up like . . .” I let the sentence trail off.

  “I’m sorry, Deuce. Go on home. I’ll call you if Jonathan has any questions.”

  I headed back to Pilsen through traffic clogged with early commuters. As I climbed the steps to my front door, my mind flashed back to the evening I walked into a burglary in progress. I wondered if it was possible Charles might have broken into my house again.

  But when I did an outside walk-around I found all the windows—including the one previously broken—in perfect condition. No windows open, no doors ajar. So I let myself in. The only things moving in the house were the cats.

  I checked the kitchen. There was no sign that any invaders had done a number on the food supply. No crumbs on the counter tops, no dirty flatware or dishes in the sink.

  I was almost disappointed. I was no closer to finding out where Charles had gone, and no closer to feeling confident that he was safe.

  I wanted to do something, but I couldn’t figure out what.

  My phone rang, and I jumped for it.

  It was Mark.

  “Hi,” I said. My funk must have presented itself in my voice.

  “Glad to talk to you too,” Mark said.

  I told him about Charles and about writing the heartbreaking stories of the four Ryan Woods victims.

  “Whoa, not what I’d call an uplifting day,” Mark said. “How about if I come over a l
ittle after six. I’ll call ahead and order takeout from Bacch’s and meet you at the house. That way you won’t have to leave in case Charles shows up.”

  “That would be great,” I said.

  “I’ll get some calamari to start. Then what?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Mark. I’m not thinking real straight. You know what I like.”

  “Okay, see you soon. Call me if the kid shows up, and I’ll get shrimp for him.”

  The kid didn’t show up.

  Not that night, and not for any of the nights that followed.

  33

  March edged into April. It had been a particularly warm winter in Chicago, and it morphed into a very pleasant spring. The trees budded and leafed out early. The forsythia and crocuses and daffodils and tulips were reborn long before they should have been. And the city looked gorgeous.

  Several more of the Ryan Woods victims were identified. Thanks to Anthony Donato and Aidan Coughlin, I got the names and background information before any of our competitors. It wasn’t that the others had lost their fire, but I had the sources locked up. They were fighting a fight they were destined to lose.

  I hadn’t seen the black SUV following me in a long time, so I guessed the feds had given up on attempting to intimidate me. Or they’d switched cars.

  Charles occupied my thoughts for long hours of every day. Going to work and coming home I prowled my neighborhood daily, hoping to spot him on the streets. I even drove wide arcs through Bronzeville, where he told me he lived. No luck there either. I couldn’t help but fear he had been scooped up by traffickers or absorbed into a gang that was protecting and training him.

  Both thoughts terrified me.

  They were ping-ponging in my head as I got down on my knees in a flower bed. When I bought my house the previous fall, I hadn’t had time to do any landscaping before winter. I was taking a fairly warm Saturday afternoon in early April to catch up.

  My hands were encased in bright yellow gardening gloves, but the cold and wet seeped through. My fingers had gone slightly numb. So it took me longer than it should have to answer my burner phone, snuggled with my regular cell phone inside a fanny pack hanging in the middle of my back. It hadn’t rung in weeks, and it startled me.

  “Yes?” I said quickly, concerned the caller might hang up. Since Carl Cribben was the only one who had the number, I was certain it must be him.

  “Saudi Arabia,” he said. I recognized his voice.

  “What about Saudi …”

  “Just listen. We shouldn’t talk very long.” I shut up. “The Saudis are behind the trafficking. Keep watch on the Washington Post. It will run a story in the next few days that should give you names to go after.”

  I felt a rising concern. “You mean the Post has my story?”

  “No, not at all. But the Post will have a story about a royal Saudi delegation visiting the United States. They’re the bastards you’re after.”

  I heard a click, and the call ended.

  What?

  I got the part about Saudi Arabia. Carl was telling me the Saudis were the targets in the U.S. human trafficking investigation. I also understood why the target was strategically important. Saudi Arabia was a major source of oil for the United States and an ally in the Middle East, albeit a dubious one. With U.S. oil production way up and imports way down over the last several years, our energy status wasn’t as dire as it had once been. So if the Saudis were complicit in international slave trafficking, the hell with them.

  I put my gardening gear away and went into the house to do some research.

  None of it told me anything helpful.

  For now.

  The next day was about the most perfect spring Sunday nature could put together. The sun was bright and warm, the sky blue with only a few little white clouds hanging around as if they too were enjoying the change of seasons. The breeze kissed light and soft, and the new leaves shone in a green so fresh it almost sparkled. Though the winter had been mild, it still had its share of gray, wet, cold days when people wrapped up in so much heavy clothing it was impossible to tell what they looked like. It was as if winter had been trying to affix “ugly” to the city on a permanent basis.

  But beauty was punching the lights out of ugly on April 10.

  Somehow Mark had gotten his hands on two great tickets for the opening night of Tracy Letts’s new play Mary Page Marlow at the incomparable Steppenwolf Theatre. Tracy Letts, the brilliant playwright who gave the world the Pulitzer-Prize-winning, August: Osage County. Tracy Letts, who could act the snot out of any play in which he appeared, including David Mamet’s, American Buffalo and Edward Albee’s, Virginia Woolf. I always thought it unfair that one man had been given so much talent. But resentful or not, I would travel anywhere to see Tracy Letts do anything, including playing a comb and a piece of tissue paper while wearing an old barrel.

  I had been telling Mark all this as we walked Murphy along Coulter Street.

  “So, given the opportunity, you’d throw me over for Tracy Letts?” Mark asked.

  “I’d have to think long and hard about it,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Okay, I’ve thought about it. No. But it was a close call, so watch yourself.”

  Marked looked at me with a quizzical expression that said he wasn’t sure if I was joking. I started to reassure him when I saw something that stopped me cold.

  We were walking past Ruiz Elementary School where I had once dreamed of enrolling Charles after I adopted him. And there he was.

  Charles, with two younger boys I thought might have been the same ones who helped burglarize my house, was standing by one of the school windows where the metal security screen had been torn loose. The window glass was broken in. Charles had his body half way through the opening when one of his little friends nudged him and pointed at the sidewalk where Mark and I stood with Murphy.

  To say my feelings were mixed would have been a gross understatement. I was so relieved to see him safe I wanted to run and hug him. But I was also seeing him commit another crime that would likely ruin his life. You only get so many second chances. I feared he was screwing up his last one.

  I must have taken a step forward because Mark put a hand on my arm.

  “Do the right thing, Deuce,” he said. “It’s for his own good.”

  I nodded, thinking if Charles saw me pull out my cell phone, he might take his friends and run.

  No such luck.

  As I dialed 911 in full view of the boys, Charles lifted his right hand and waved. Then he ducked his head and went through the broken window and disappeared into the darkness beyond.

  The police who responded said they caught Charles and his friends in one of the school’s supply closets, helping themselves to colored pencils and construction paper, not exactly a case of grand theft. Besides, they didn’t get away with anything.

  I wondered at their choice of things to steal. In a school filled with computers, they chose items worth nothing in the Pawn Shop of the Streets. It was as if Charles wanted to get caught. I couldn’t figure why.

  I thought the police handling of the boys was rougher than the situation required. All three were handcuffed and more dragged than walked to three separate squad cars. But when I mentioned it to one of the cops, letting it drop that I was a columnist for the Chicago Journal, he said, “An’ if you’re threatenin’ somethin’, I presume you know who you’re threatenin’. Cuz we could call another unit to transport you too.” He wasn’t smiling.

  “You’d arrest me?” I said. “On what charge? Doing my duty as a citizen to report a crime in process? Oooh. I think I’m scared.”

  Another officer came over and muscled his way between us.

  “Let it go, Ma’am,” he said. “You did your duty. Now let us do ours.”

  “Take it easy,” I said. “They’re just kids.”

  Mark took my arm. “Come on, Deuce. There’s nothing you can do.”

  “Can you at least tell me where you’re taking t
hem?” I asked the officers.

  “Juvenile lockup,” the sarcastic one answered. “Where’d you think? Maybe the mayor’s office and then Burger King?”

  “Come on, Deuce,” Mark repeated. “It’s Sunday. There’s nothing you can do until tomorrow. Then you can call the woman you met at juvie court.”

  I glanced back at the squad car in which Charles had been placed. He was looking at me with baleful eyes. I saw him mouth, “I’m sorry.”

  34

  The next day I tried to find Phyllis Metzler in the juvenile court building. I was told she was running from case to case. No one was sure where she was.

  “Is she the one person in Cook County who doesn’t have a cell phone?” I asked. “Could someone please call her and tell her Deuce Mora has to talk to her about a boy picked up for breaking into the Ruiz Elementary School yesterday?”

  “And what’s your interest?” a woman asked. She demonstrated all the curiosity of someone asked to spend the day accounting for city-owned paper clips.

  “I’m the one who saw him break into the school and called the police,” I said. “I’m also the one who caught him earlier this year after he broke into my house.”

  There was a moment’s thoughtful silence.

  “You say your name’s Deuce Mora? Oh, yeah, the newspaper lady, right? I remember that case. You let the prosecutor drop the charges to a misdemeanor so the boy could go to Faulkner. That was a nice thing you did.”

  “Yeah, that was me,” I said. “I want to find out how hard it’s going to go for him now, with this new problem. Maybe there’s something more I can do to help.”

  I almost heard a smile in the woman’s voice when she responded. “Ain’t too many folks take that much interest in a street kid,” she said. “I’ll try to find Ms. Metzler and ask her to call you. Gimme your number.”

  I was sitting at my desk, thinking back to the night before. I hadn’t been in the mood to go to the theater after dropping the dime on Charles, but Mark argued that I needed to descale my brain as if I were an old coffeemaker.