by Katy Munger
I did not even get the chance to say hello. When the two cops brought in Roxy, the glare she gave me did not exactly inspire hands across the waters of friendship. Nor did the curious looks from the two officers. But after a warning glance from Bill, they looked away as if I was not even there.
What followed was like some sort of weird dating game audition, with one hostile biker after another brought into the main interview room where Bill Butler waited to ask them a series of questions about their associations with the Tinajero sisters and where they had been on the Saturday that Candy was taken. To say they were a motley bunch would be an understatement. It was as if a pirate ship that had recently hijacked a shipment of leather jackets had crashed onto the steps of the Raleigh Police Department and thrown its crew into the interview room. Big, small, skinny, fat, handsome, downright ugly, cheerful, surly, loads of hair and absolutely no hair—you name it. Every permutation of hard living known to mankind appeared in a parade of human flotsam and jetsam. The only thing they seemed to share in common were the colors they wore on their leather jackets, and even those differed at times. Roxy really had gotten around. I spotted the insignia of three different clubs. There had to be at least a dozen bikers in all paraded through the interrogation room and not a one of them wanted to be there. They were bleary-eyed to a man and I could practically see the waves of stale alcohol radiating off them.
As the men were grilled, they mumbled answers to Bill’s questions in varying degrees of resentment. I kept a close eye on Roxy. I did not think that she was the kind of person who got along with her ex-boyfriends. I thought she was the kind of person who buried her ex-boyfriends. The only thing saving them from her wrath, I suspected, was the fact that Roxy could not keep track of all the men who had failed to meet her expectations. At least that’s what I thought. Then I realized she was mumbling a string of scornful pronouncements under her breath and keeping track of her exes just fine: “Mamma’s boy…. couldn’t get it up…. cheap as hell…. halitosis.… refused to shower…. acted like I was an inflatable doll in bed….”
The list of failings went on and on. At first, the cops guarding us exchanged glances at each of Roxy’s comments, but then one of them actually pulled out a small notebook and began scribbling. Seriously? Were they planning to include “small dingaling” on their rap sheets?
“Couldn’t cook worth a damn,” Roxy muttered sullenly about one amiable-looking fellow whose Santa Claus gut indicated that someone in his life could cook just fine.
I lost it. “Seriously? Who can cook worth a damn these days? No wonder you’re single,” I said in disbelief.
Startled, the cops stared at me like I was daft. Roxy ignored me. But she did tone it down. I saw her narrow her eyes. I heard her whisper multiple invectives. I think I even heard her groan once or twice, in disgust or desire I cannot say. But none of the bikers seemed to trigger anything more than her usual bad-tempered reaction to mankind in general after that.
As for the bikers, Bill was getting absolutely nothing useful from them. What he was getting from them was a lot of attitude, a few creative insults, and more than one lecture about the rights the Constitution afforded citizens, even ones who slept all day, partied each night, and smelled like a combination of stale beer, dried piss, and smoke.
About an hour and a half into this sullen parade of uncooperative men, all of whom clearly had absolutely nothing to do with the disappearance of Candy Tinajero, I felt my cell phone vibrating against my butt. I checked the caller ID, saw it was Marcus, and declined the call. A few minutes later, it happened again. And again. And again.
I left the room quietly and walked down the hall before I finally answered it. “What?” I demanded rudely. “I’m on a case here.”
“Oh, puhleeze,” Marcus said snidely. “I’ve got good news, weird news, and better news—and you need to know all of it immediately.”
“What’s the good news?” I demanded.
“Bill Butler has separated from his wife.”
“What? Since when?”
“About a month ago,” Marcus said, whispering into the phone on his end as if he were imparting state secrets. “He tried to keep it quiet, but my friend Damian found out from a dispatcher named Dee, who dates Bill’s cousin T.J., and T.J. overheard his sister telling her mother-in-law about the news at a Labor Day cookout, so of course he told me about it when I ran into him at Target. Rumor has it she left him for a woman.”
I doubted that. She lacked the imagination. I thought of the skinny blonde Bill had abruptly married when I had failed to appreciate being tied down by him. She was the kind of woman who had watched her weight since fifth grade, subsisted on potato chips and cigarettes, changed her appearance, and her personality, depending on whatever man she was with, and was constantly complaining that Bill wasn’t following the right relationship rules, whatever the hell that means. She was perpetually insecure and a permanent victim who was also a master manipulator. But I was self-aware enough to realize I’d probably never like anyone who kept Bill from me.
“That woman could no more walk on the wild side than I could star in the ballet,” I muttered. Marcus laughed with a heartiness that was more than a little insulting. I could dance. Perhaps not in a tutu, and not without a whole lot of tequila first, but I could dance. In fact, they were still talking about my 4th of July interpretive performance down at the Berkeley Café. Apparently, my patriotism had been surpassed only by my insistence that I needed a pole. My performance had happened three years ago but the owners still patted me down for sparklers each time I popped in for a drink.
“I think that part about her leaving him for another woman is just some rumor people started as a joke,” Marcus admitted. “But the separation thing is real. I checked for you.”
“He did not share that with me,” I admitted, my feelings hurt.
“When’s the last time you saw him?” Marcus asked nosily.
“About two minutes ago. He’s interviewing persons of interest in the Tinajero case and I’m supposed to be watching from the observation room.”
“And, yet, you’re talking to me.”
“Shut up. What’s the weird news?”
“Rodney Salem is not and never has been an informant.”
“Are you sure?”
He was insulted. “Of course I’m sure. I hacked into his bank account, among other things. He’s not working for any local or state enforcement agencies and he’s not getting any money from anywhere except direct deposits from his employer. He’s clean.”
“Why would Cody Sherrill mislead me like that?”
“Why indeed?” Marcus murmured coolly.
“What’s the better news?” I asked, desperate for a lead.
“Rodney Salem may not be a police informant, but he is no longer missing.”
“Way to bury the lead, Marcus. Where? How? When?”
“Sometime Sunday afternoon, a church bus driver spotted him lying in a ditch off a back highway about half an hour west of Charlotte and called an ambulance. He’s in Charlotte General. He didn’t have ID on him and was in pretty bad shape. He couldn’t give them his name until this morning. When he did, one of the orderlies thought it sounded familiar. He checked the police bulletin and saw the alert I’d posted and called me.”
“You put Rodney Salem out on the wire for little old me?”
“I did. Now, let’s hope the Raleigh Police Department did not. Because you have a very small head start. You’d better get going if you want to beat them to the punch. Once they get there, you know what will happen. The blue wall will come down and you’ll never get to him.”
“Can you stall making it official?”
“For a couple hours, maybe.”
“I get it,” I said quickly. “I’m on my way now. And, Marcus,” I began.
“I know,” he interrupted. “You love me.”
“Always,” I added, but he had already hung up.
●
Charlotte was anywher
e from an hour and a half to a four hour drive from Raleigh, depending on the extent of the never-ending highway construction on I-85. But I knew I could make it there in two hours, speeding, if I didn’t get stopped by a trooper. I had at least an hour head start on Bill Butler and crew, but I’d have to move fast. Bill was no fool. Once he learned I’d abruptly left the observation room, he’d know something was up. And I’d have to somehow talk my way into Rodney’s hospital room when I got there. That could be a real problem and I couldn’t chance failing. I had to get in and talk to him first—meaning there was only one way to play it.
I called Frieda Salem as I zoomed down I-40 and told her to be ready at the front door of her office in twenty minutes. I hung up before she could ask any questions. We’d have plenty of time in the car to talk.
I drove like a madwoman through the Research Triangle Park and made it in fifteen minutes. When I pulled up in front of a scary-looking, windowless concrete building that reeked of corporate secrets and high salaries, Frieda was waiting out front as ordered. She dashed to my car and hopped into the front seat. Her seat belt was on before I hit the gas pedal.
“Damn, you’re good,” I admitted. “You’d make a hell of a wing man.”
“Go,” she said with an authority I had not heard from her before.
I peeled away from the curb and sped toward the interstate.
"Rodney's been found, hasn’t he?" she asked.
"Yes. He’s in a Charlotte hospital."
"How bad is it?" she asked. She closed her eyes as if that would protect her from the answer.
"He's alive," I said. "That's all I know."
"Drive faster," Frieda demanded. Her voice faltered.
"Take a deep breath," I suggested. "My source says he's not in danger of dying. He's just been beaten up pretty badly."
"Did he have anything to do with Candy being kidnapped?" The uncertainty in her voice betrayed the fact that, over the last few days of worry and wondering, she had lost some faith in her brother.
“I don’t know.” We reached the merge lane on the highway and I put the pedal to the metal, the wheels of my Porsche digging into the asphalt as we zoomed past the other cars. An engine light flickered on and then off again. I added “no engine trouble” to my list of prayers and pushed the car harder.
“Well, what do you think?” Frieda demanded. “Was he involved?”
"I can't say for certain, but the fact that he was found by the side of the road, beaten up, would indicate that he's probably another victim, not the perpetrator."
"I knew it," Frieda said. "I told you he would never hurt anyone else."
"I would not assume anything yet," I cautioned her. "At this point, anything is possible. He may be another victim. He may not remember anything. Who knows? All I really know for sure is that I'll need your help when we get there. They’re not going to let me see him unless I’m with a relative. You'll need to be calm but insistent at the hospital. Tell them you’re his sister and demand to see him. Don't take no for an answer. And don't introduce me. I'll just stand there, not say a word, and look pretty."
She glanced at me like she had some serious doubts.
"I can look pretty," I said defensively. She looked even more skeptical. "Fine. I'll just wait for you by the elevators while you find out his room number."
“I can do that,” she assured me.
"If he knows anything about what happened to Candy,” I warned her, “I need to find out. The cops got a tip that bikers are behind the killing and kidnapping. As soon as they hear Rodney has been found, they’re going to look at him as their number one suspect. I guarantee it. I need to get to him so I can pursue other avenues as quickly as possible, then get the hell out of there before the Raleigh cops arrive. The one thing we’ve got going for us is that they won’t let law enforcement in Charlotte know about it until the last possible minute. They’re too competitive and will want to be the ones to get to your brother first. That gives us a small window of time."
“Got it,” she said. Her voice had taken on a new strength.
I glanced at her and realized how tired she must be. Purple shadows underneath her eyes told me that she had not gotten much sleep in recent days. "He's going to be okay," I told her firmly. "Do you hear me? He's alive. Your brother is alive."
She looked back at me, nodding. "Just drive faster," she said.
●
We made it to Charlotte in early afternoon, neither one of us in the mood to talk. The silence had not been awkward. Frieda was lost in her fears, trusting me to take her to the brother she loved so much. That thought filled me with new energy and renewed determination. It was why I did what I did: so that people who had nowhere else to turn had someone they could turn to.
Once we reached the hospital parking lot, Frieda was out the door before I even turned off the ignition. I was right behind her. We began to sprint across a labyrinth of one-way streets, pedestrian walkways, and carefully constructed flower beds. We plowed through them all, heading for the main entrance. She reached the front doors before me. A plump lady coming the other way saw me approaching and her eyes narrowed. She was prepared to guard her right to exit, before I could enter, with the focused determination of a shopper protecting her place in line for the opening of a Black Friday sale. By the time I had untangled myself from a mountain of outraged bosom and polyester, Frieda had obtained Rodney's room number from the visitor’s desk. That was a good sign. It meant the Raleigh cops did not know that he was here yet or, at least, they had not yet sealed off his room to visitors.
An empty elevator waited for us, door open. We rode up to the fourth floor in silence, until I asked the question I’d been avoiding. "What wing did they say he was on?"
"They said he was in the transitional care unit," Frieda told me as she anxiously watched the floors of the hospital tick past.
"That's a good sign," I assured her. “He's not in intensive care."
The doors opened and she did not bother to answer. She was down the hall, looking for Rodney's room, oblivious to the staff and visitors that stepped back and stared at her as she rushed by.
We all needed someone to love us like that, I thought to myself. A brother. A sister. Hell, even a dog would do. Did I have anyone in my life who felt that way about me? If not, it was my own damn fault.
I followed Frieda into the hospital room. Rodney was bandaged from head to toe, with just a small slit of eyes peeking out through a massive gauze turban that completely covered his head, making it look like a giant egg balanced on a pair of shoulders. There were more holes in the gauze for his nostrils and mouth. The Invisible Man. After he’d been hit by a truck. One leg was in traction and both arms were swaddled in plaster of Paris. He was clearly asleep and did not so much as twitch at my entrance. Frieda was standing by his side, looking down at him, her hand resting lightly on one of his encased arms. Tears were trickling down her cheeks.
"Stop crying," I ordered her, all too mindful of her capacity for waterworks. "I'm sorry to be cold, but we don't have the time. I need you to wake him up."
"If I wake him up, he'll be in pain," she protested.
"Do it," I ordered her.
Frieda bent over her brother and whispered into his ear, muttering, "Rodney, it's Frieda. I'm here," over and over until his eyes began to flutter and he opened them. It took a moment for him to recognize her. Agitated, he began to strain against his bandages. A tightly tucked sheet trapped him in the bed and I wondered if he was restrained beneath the linens.
"Take it easy," I told him. "It can't be good for you to move."
He looked from me to his sister and back again.
"I don't have time to do much more than tell you this once," I said. "I'm a private investigator and your sister hired me to find you. Well, now I've found you. But I need to find Candy Tinajero next. She's been kidnapped. Did you have anything to do with it? If so, tell me now. I’m not a cop. I just want to find her before she gets hurt." I knew there was a 50/
50 chance he’d have no memory of what had happened, but I had to try.
He said something muffled in reply that I could not understand. I leaned as close as I could to hear better. He spoke with a strange half-gargle, half lisp. "I went by the club to see her," he mumbled, alleviating my fear that he would remember nothing of that day. "I wanted to ask her advice on which ring to give Roxy. I was going to ask her to marry me."
Seriously? He wanted to marry Roxy Tinajero? I’d just as soon adopt a boa constrictor. "What time were you at the strip club?" I asked.
"Around noon. I needed Candy’s advice about the ring because I wanted to take Roxy out in a rowboat at Pullen Park and propose to her later that afternoon."
Again: seriously? No one had ever done anything even remotely that romantic for me and, unlike Roxy, I did not bite. "What happened when you got to the club?" I asked.
"Candy said to meet her in the dressing room because she had to fix a couple of costumes that had torn the night before and we could talk while she sewed. But when I got to the club, it took a long time for the scrawny little dude who owns it to open the back door for me. He waved me back toward the dressing room without a word, like he’d been expecting me, and disappeared into the main room. But when I got to the dressing room, it was empty. I figured Candy had forgotten our meeting. Then I heard some shouting from the front room. When I went to see what was going on, someone hit me from behind, hard. I went down like a rock. I don't remember much after that."
I tried not to let the disappointment show in my voice. “Do you remember anything else? Anything at all?"
He shook his head as far as he was able. “I only remember the shouting right before I got hit. It sounded like someone was in trouble."
"A man or woman?” I asked him. “Was it Candy?”
"No," he whispered in a raspy voice. "I think it was a man. A man yelling something about how they better leave or he'd kill them. Then…” His voice trailed off.