by R. A. McGee
“I told you I was going to call you later. You can’t say I didn’t give you a heads up. Got that water?”
“Come on, Porter,” she said as she tossed him a bottle.
“Talked to Abel Quintana.”
“Where?”
“He’s in a field a couple miles from here.”
“Are you kidding me? You call me out here because you killed a guy? Porter, I’m a cop, I can’t—”
“Will you shut up a minute? He’s not dead. He was very much alive when I left him.”
“Left him where?”
“In a field, like I told you.”
Rivera looked frustrated. “Okay, I’ll bite. How did Quintana get into the field?”
“I kidnapped him.”
Rivera looked like her head was going to explode. She screamed at Porter about being an accessory and losing her job, in colorful language.
Porter cut her off. “Listen, I’m already in your car. If what I tell you is bogus, you can just drive me to jail. Charge me with something. Waking up a detective on her day off or something. We have a long ride, so you might as well relax and listen.”
Rivera took a few deep breaths. Once Porter knew she was listening to him, he told her the story, starting at Quintana’s house and ending in the field. He left nothing out. When she seemed dubious, he played the recording from his phone.
“You know none of that confession is admissible in court, right? It’s no good. I mean, you were a cop, I take it you know what the law is.”
“I wasn’t a cop. I was a federal agent. There’s a difference.”
“Fine, you were a fed. The evidence is still shit, no matter what you want to call yourself.”
“Believe me, I know the confession is no good. That’s fine, that’s not why I got it,” Porter said.
“It’s not fine with me. The only reason I agreed to help you was because you told me you’d give me a case. This isn’t breaking a case.”
“You’re thinking too small. Hector Quintana took the girl, do you doubt that?”
“How can I?” Rivera said. “His damn brother just said he did.”
“So we agree. This is just the first step. I need to talk to Hector and find out what he did with her. Trust me, you’ll get a better case, something much bigger than Abel Quintana.”
Rivera was silent for a few minutes, her face illuminated by the dashboard display. Her hair, down and curly the first time Porter had seen her, was still wet and pulled into a bun. He noticed a dimple in her chin he’d missed during their first meeting.
“Let’s say I agree with your bullshit logic. What’s your next move?”
“I need a shower,” Porter said.
“You’re right about that. I hope I can get the smell out of my car.”
“If you just got molested by a colony of mosquitos, you’d be in rough shape too.”
“I’m not worried about your sensitive skin,” Rivera said. “Man up a little. Tell me what your plan is.”
“Shit, there is no plan. Not yet, at least. Let me talk to Hector, then I’ll take it from there. I do need you to do something for me, though,” Porter said.
“The ride isn’t enough?”
“Can you get me everything else you can on the Acres? I mean everything. You had a little bit of info in Danny’s file, but I need it all.”
Rivera rolled her head back and forth for a few moments. “Yeah, I can do that. I’ll call your boy Ruas back and ask him for whatever they can give me. I imagine he won’t have a problem doing it if he knows it’s for you.” Rivera was quiet for a few minutes. “Do you think that girl’s still alive?”
Porter was looking out the window and didn’t answer.
“Porter?”
“I thought you were only worried about closing the case. What’s it matter to you whether you find her alive or dead?”
“Because I’m not a heartless bitch.”
Porter stared out the window. The landscape had grown less rural and there were large shopping centers with twenty-four-hour superstores. He never understood why people needed the option to get a kiwi at three a.m.
“You think I am? That’s bullshit and you know it. I work the coldest cases in the world. Every day, I come to work and stare at pictures of people. Dozens of people, hell, hundreds. All of those people are gone. Here one day and disappeared the next. Their family can’t find them. I can’t find them. They’re just gone.”
Porter wasn’t looking at her, but she had his attention.
“I shuffle papers around, make sure that their body hasn’t turned up on a beach or in a shallow grave in the woods, then I put the case file back in my filing cabinet and move on to the next one. All day. That’s all I can do. It’s the worst job ever. I have to pretend like I don’t care. I have to pretend—every time I see a little kid’s smiling face, missing teeth or covered in ice cream—that they’re just a file number.”
“I understand,” Porter said.
“How can you even begin to? Don’t try to pacify me.”
“When I was still on the job, I worked a bunch of child porn cases. Going after the distributors is one thing. But finding the manufacturers? Kicking in a door and recognizing a bed or a couch you saw in a video where a kid’s being…” Porter turned from the window and looked at Rivera. “I get it.”
“It’s the worst. I can’t even hope I’ll find any of these kids, because they’re all dead or tied up in a basement being used as a sex doll. The reality of that would break me. I have a son.”
“I know.”
“How did you… never mind.”
The pair rode in silence for several minutes before Porter spoke up. “No.”
“No, what?”
“I don’t think Danisha Hill is still alive,” Porter said.
Eighteen
Rivera dropped Porter off a few hundred yards away from the bowling alley. It was dark on the side of the road and the crickets were out in full effect.
“Just in case there are cameras. I can’t have my license showing up.”
“I get it. Let me know what you find out about the Acres as soon as you can.”
“Until you sign my paycheck, I don’t work for you. I’ll get it done when I can. Until then, don’t do anything stupid, you got me?”
“Define stupid.”
Rivera let out an exasperated sigh and Porter shut the door. He watched her drive away, feeling like she might have made a good partner, in his former life. At the very least, she hadn’t turned him in for kidnapping Quintana. Yet.
He walked up the main road until he came to the gravel lot of the bowling alley, then turned toward his Yukon across the street. He hit the door-unlock and hopped in, starting the truck to get the air conditioner going. He was drenched in sweat, mosquito-bitten, and hungry. Porter pulled out of the lot intending to head west and back to his house, but instead found himself driving north.
Staying on Florida Avenue, he followed a familiar path that took him to Lutz. Going west on Crenshaw Lake road, he was hit with a feeling of nostalgia. He had often taken this way as a teenager. Late for curfew and nervously checking the clock in his beat-up Plymouth, he’d take this twisted road at a higher rate of speed than was safe. Still, it was better than getting busted coming home late.
Crenshaw Lake spit Porter out on Van Dyke Road, which led him to a large subdivision. He hadn’t planned on going, but now that he was here, there was no reason not to stop in. Following a familiar combination of turns led him to the front of his parents’ house, and a parking spot he’d used as a teenager two decades ago.
Retrieving the spare key from its hiding spot, Porter slipped it into the door and felt the tumblers give way. He paused for a moment to prepare and then pushed the door open.
A shrill alarm went off as the burglar alarm snapped into action. Porter closed the door and took several long strides over to the keypad. Punching in the code, he was rewarded with silence. He stood still for a moment, hoping he’d killed the alarm in t
ime.
There was no noise coming from the master bedroom. Pleased that he hadn’t woken anyone, he took his shoes off at the front door and walked down a well-worn hallway to what used to be his room, now the guest room. Fortunately, his old dresser still had an accumulation of clothes from over the years.
Porter grabbed a towel from the hallway closet and headed to the bathroom. His family had owned the house for twenty years, and in all that time the bathroom hadn’t changed. It wasn’t dirty or run-down, just getting older.
Vintage, Porter thought.
He took his sweaty clothes off, made a neat pile on the floor, and set his gun on the bathroom counter. He turned the handle and waited a few minutes, then stepped in, letting the water wash away the grime of the evening. It was too bad it couldn’t wash away his memory of Abel Quintana.
Finishing up, Porter grabbed the towel and stepped out of the tub. He regarded himself for a moment in the mirror, pulling at the dark circles under his eyes. He wrapped the towel around his waist, grabbed the fresh clothes, and stepped back down the hallway to the guest room. On his way, he detected the faint aroma of coffee.
Shit, he thought.
Porter shut the door and finished drying off. Putting on the clean clothes made him feel like a new man. Throwing the towel over his shoulder, he went back to the bathroom to grab his dirty clothes, but found only the Glock. Porter slipped the pistol into his back pocket and went to the kitchen.
Turning the corner, he saw a woman pouring two mugs of coffee. Behind her, the washing machine was running.
“Pretty efficient for four o’clock in the morning,” Porter said. “Sorry I woke you up.”
“I was already awake,” she said.
“Sure you were.”
“I’m an old woman. I don’t need much sleep.”
“You aren’t old yet, knock it off.”
“Shut up, kid. You’ll be old one day. Just wait. Then when you tell people you’re old and they don’t believe you, you’ll see how it feels.”
They laughed.
“I noticed you have your… blaster? Do you kids say blaster? Is that the slang?”
“Sure, Mom, we say blaster sometimes.”
“See, I’m old but I’m hip. I know things,” she said.
“I bet you do.”
There was silence for a few minutes as they doctored their respective coffees. Porter didn’t like coffee. The taste wasn’t too bad, but it always gave him the shits. Still, when you wake your mother up at four in the morning and she makes you coffee, you oblige.
“Anything you want to talk about?” she said.
“Worried because you saw the gun?”
“Not really,” she said. “I know you always carry, despite how I feel about them.”
“I’ve never understood how a retired federal agent could be scared of guns.”
“Shut up, kid. I’m not scared of guns. I just don’t need to have them around all the time. I used to tell your father the same thing, but he never listened. Remember when I found that revolver in his sock drawer?”
“Yeah, you were pretty hot about it,” Porter said.
“He knew how I felt about them, so at least he tried to hide them from me. I didn’t want you boys around all that stuff. A fat lot of good it did me.”
“We didn’t turn out that bad,” Porter said.
“Maybe. How was California?”
“It was… unique.”
“Any trouble?”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” Porter said.
“That’s not an answer.”
Porter swirled the coffee around in his cup. “Some trouble.”
“Ross told me it was too late for that last girl. What was her name?”
“Evanna,” Porter said.
“Well, Evanna’s not your fault. You know that, right? Even though you tried, it isn’t your fault. You did the best you could do.”
“I know. I’m not ate up about it or anything, but it would have been nice to get her while she was still alive.”
His mother didn’t answer, instead putting some fabric softener in the machine before leaning on the counter. “So, what are you up to? What’s got you up so late?”
“I kidnapped a guy tonight,” Porter said.
Nineteen
Porter recounted the events of the evening and a general overview of what he was working on with Ross.
“What a low-life piece of trash,” his mother said. “How could he just serve that poor girl up to them like that?”
“I’m not sure. He deserves worse than what he got. I’ll bet he isn’t even tied up anymore,” Porter said.
“Rivera?”
“Yeah. I’m sure she called in an anonymous tip to the podunk sheriff out there,” Porter said.
“The girl has her own conscience to worry about.”
“I don’t blame her. She’s gotta worry about her job,” Porter said. “If it were up to me, I’d have left him there.”
“I bet you would have.”
There was a comfortable silence as they cleaned up the coffee mugs.
“You know I don’t question your judgment, right?” she said.
Porter nodded.
“Ever since you were a boy you always did what you thought was right. It never much mattered if it was actually the right thing to do or not. Those are two different concepts, you know? Two different things. Your dad was the same way.”
Porter said nothing.
“You can’t arrest people anymore. Maybe you need to let the police handle this. All you have to do is give them the info you have, and maybe they can get their heads out of the dirt and fix it,” she said.
“Believe me, I’d rather do that. This job isn’t paying me nearly enough for all this hassle. If I thought there was a chance they’d get to the bottom of things, I’d let them. We both know the cops would have never found out what Abel Quintana knew.”
“Never is a long time, son.”
Porter started to reply but bit his tongue.
His mother got up and walked across the kitchen to the table where he sat. She gave him a kiss on the forehead. “I want you to think about where you’re going with this. I know you’re willing to go all the way down the rabbit hole. Just be sure to have a way to get back out when you’re done.”
Porter nodded.
“What are you going to do now?”
“Thinking about using the guest bed. I’m beat,” Porter said.
“I figured as much. Get some rest and we’ll talk later.”
With that she left him alone in the kitchen. Porter knew she was worried but wouldn’t show it. He stood and made sure the doors were locked, walked into the guest room, and fell into a fitful sleep.
Twenty
The streaming sun on his face woke Porter. He rolled over and groped for his phone. He’d been asleep long enough. He took a leak and went to the living room, where everything was still quiet. There was a note on the television.
I had errands to run. I know you’ll be gone when I get back. Think about what I said last night. Be careful.
Love, Mom
p.s. - The laundry fairy was here. Next time, she expects a tip.
Porter laughed and put on his clothes from the night before. He got his wallet and phone, then slipped his Glock back into his waistband. He locked the front door behind him and stepped into the day.
Shit, Porter thought, it’s already a sauna out here.
He started his truck, letting it idle and cool off while he debated what to do with the day. His phone interrupted his thoughts.
“How did things go?” Ross said.
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I would. Did you find anything out?”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t dick around with me, I’m dying here.”
“You buy me breakfast and I’ll tell you everything. Sound good?”
“Deal,” Ross said in an instant.
“I’l
l see you in a bit.” Porter eased the Yukon onto the main streets and headed to Ross’s house.
Ross had bought his home when he was nineteen. He’d always been a saver: birthdays, Christmas, paychecks from the grocery store, odd jobs around town, he kept it all. During Ross’s sophomore year in college he’d decided he wanted a house. This was during the days when Tampa had been awash with foreclosed homes. Every neighborhood had dozens of empty houses. The banks did all they could to sell them off at a deep discount and salvage capital.
Ross bought the worst house in the best neighborhood. It had belonged to a pair of formerly married lawyers. Their divorce was ugly, and between the wife destroying all the surfaces and the husband selling off all the appliances, the house was shot. The country club community had been skeptical of the young kid moving into their midst, but it didn’t take long for them to realize that Ross not only had the best of intentions, but the capital and stubbornness to see a home renovation through. The first year he owned the house, he put all his free time into fixing it. Having no background in construction, he learned as he went.
Drywall was taken down to the studs; new flooring, cabinets, lights, plumbing, and even a new roof were added. Ross learned and did it all, and Porter helped every step of the way. Now the house was the best on the block, and everyone on the block had long since come to appreciate their fastidious neighbor.
Porter hit the call box at the gate of the community. There was no reply, just a high-pitched beep, and the gate pulled open on its automated track.
Pulling up in front, he found his friend looking fresh with a large coffee in his hand.
“You look like shit,” Ross said.
“Me? You looked in a mirror lately? Where the hell did your hairline go?” Porter said.
“How can you be so savage, so early in the morning? Unless it’s late for you. What did you do last night?”
“Did you order food?” Porter said. “I’m dying here.”
“It’s Sunday morning. No one delivers food now. People are at church and stuff. Maybe you should look into it.”