He opened his eyes again. Pointed. “That one. He was with, uh—” he leaned forward to read the smirking guy’s name—“Alejandro Santiago.”
“You smell anything on ’em?”
“Nope.”
Hadley looked at them, one eyebrow lifted.
“Pot,” Kevin explained. “Like we talked about.” He turned back to the chief. “Lyle says we’ve got a dead body?”
“Mmm.” The chief’s face was abstracted as he studied the two sheets.
“One of these guys?” Kevin gestured to the board.
“I don’t think so. We don’t have an ID yet, but he’s been dead at least a month, maybe more, and we’ve got confirmation from the First District Anti-Gang Task Force that all these charmers were alive and well as of the beginning of this month, when they reported in to their parole officers. We’re interested in the group in the car because Officer Knox said Santiago and one other guy had prison tats on their fingers that look very much like the ones on our John Doe.”
“Just like,” Hadley muttered.
The chief crossed to the table and picked up one of the photos. It was a close-up of a human hand, puffed up like a rubber-glove balloon, with what looked like gang tags between the knuckles and first joints. “Do these look familiar to you?”
Kevin shook his head. “No.”
“I mean, do they look like the tattoos on Alejandro Santiago?”
Kevin glanced at Hadley. “I—uh, didn’t see any tattoos, Chief. I may not have been close enough.”
“I just want to make sure Officer Knox isn’t accidentally conflating two different things. There’s no mention of any hand or finger markings on either of these sheets.”
“He had prison tats on his hands,” Hadley said. “I worked in the California DOC for two years. Believe me, the ballpoint special is distinctive.” She turned to Kevin. “I told you last night, remember? About how they were inked in?”
Oh, crap. “I—uh . . .”
The chief gave him a long look. “Kevin? Did Officer Knox describe any tattoos to you?”
“No,” he said. Shit. “She didn’t say anything about tattoos at the time.” He grabbed at a straw. “But she was real shaken up by the whole thing. I wouldn’t expect her to remember every little detail.”
“Mmm.” The chief turned toward Hadley, who was clench-jawed and rigid. “Kevin’s got a point. You’ve been in two high-stress situations, back-to-back. It may be you’re creating links where there aren’t any. Not intentionally,” he added, holding up his hands. “That’s just the way people are. We all go looking for patterns.”
“Like those trick abstract prints where the dots and dashes make you see a human face,” Kevin said.
“Yes. Thank you, Kevin.”
Too late, he realized that wasn’t going to make Hadley feel any better. “I know what I saw,” she said. “And I saw those markings”—she jammed a finger against the photo the chief was still holding—“on that man.” Her arm swept toward the bulletin board, where Santiago’s picture was displayed.
“We’re still going to follow up on the guys in the car.” The chief dropped the photo back into the file. “We have one dead Latino with gang markings, and two live Latinos with possible gang connections up from the Bronx. It’s a pretty thin connection, but it’s the only string we’ve got.”
“I wanna know what the hell they were doing in Millers Kill.” Lyle MacAuley strolled into the squad room. “Recruiting?”
The chief looked unsettled at the suggestion. “This isn’t the Latin Kings or Los Traveosos. The AGTF classifies them as known associates, that’s all. Besides, most gangs tend to be racially cohesive. Last I looked, Millers Kill and its surrounds didn’t have much in the way of a Hispanic population.”
“You’re not looking hard enough. Every fourth farm in the county has Mexicans working for ’em nowadays.” MacAuley handed the chief a mug of coffee. The chief took it and blew across the top. MacAuley cocked an eyebrow. “You don’t think some of those farmhands up here for a crack at the good life wouldn’t trade hard labor for a chance to walk tough and make big money? Sellin’ drugs is a hell of a lot easier on a man than milkin’ cows.”
“Until you get gunned down.” The chief took a sip, grimaced, then took another. “Did Harlene make this?”
“Just because I didn’t put six teaspoons of sugar in it? Jesus.” MacAuley gestured toward the hallway. “You get anything out of Pedro, there?”
“The kid’s name is Amado. Amado Esfuentes. And no, I didn’t get anything. It was a long shot, anyway.”
“Amado?” Kevin asked. They both looked at him as if the filing cabinet had spoken.
“You should check ’im out, Kevin. He’s the only guy I’ve ever seen has a worse beard than yours was.” MacAuley stroked his chin.
“He’s the guest worker who broke his arm in that accident back in April,” the chief said. He took another drink from his mug, wincing. “I figured, since he is Latino and he’s living out on my brother-in-law’s farm—where the body was found—he might have some information.”
“I thought he was shifty.” Hadley’s voice was still tight, but she sounded as if she was trying to let it go. “Like he was hiding something. He didn’t like it when you asked him about anyone he might have seen around the McGeoch place.”
The chief nodded. “I agree.”
Kevin opened his mouth. She got to sit in on an interrogation? I never get to do that! He snapped his jaw shut. He wasn’t going to move up from patrol by being a crybaby. A new and unpleasant thought occurred to him. Maybe he wasn’t going to be the one stepping into departed officer Mark Durkee’s shoes. Maybe he wasn’t advancing from street work to investigations. Maybe they had hired Hadley Knox for that. That would explain why, despite her reluctance, the chief kept pushing her into the investigations. Maybe her DOC experience gave her an edge. Maybe they still thought he was too young. Maybe there was some sort of equal opportunity quota and they needed a woman.
The chief was still talking. “Don’t forget he probably views any American in uniform as a threat. I suspect his uneasiness may have more to do with his legal status as an alien than with trying to conceal anything criminal. Still . . . let’s keep that in mind.”
“Maybe you should let Knox question him alone.” MacAuley looked at Hadley speculatively over the rim of his coffee cup. “He might find her less threatening. Open up more.”
Solo questioning! And she’s not even out of Basic! God damn! Hadley, however, didn’t seem to appreciate that she was in like Flynn—except this Flynn obviously wasn’t. She got a panicked look on her face. “Uh . . .” she said.
The chief shook his head. “I want to talk with my sister and brother-in-law first. Kevin?”
“Chief?”
“I want you to drive Mr. Esfuentes back to St. Alban’s.” He paused. MacAuley turned his considering gaze on the chief. “Tell Reverend Fergusson we’ll run him back out after he finishes work tonight,” the chief continued. “We’ll keep everything nice and informal and friendly-like.”
“Uh . . . okay.”
“Officer Knox, go with him to the interview room and let Mr. Esfuentes know what’s going on.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Then you may as well knock off for the day.”
She stood. “Yes, sir.”
In the hallway, out of earshot of the old guys, Kevin said, “Look, I’m sorry about what went down back there. I mean, about not backing you up on the tattoos.”
She gave him a jaundiced look. “I don’t expect you to lie for me, Flynn.” She inhaled. “It doesn’t matter if they believe me or not. I shared like the chief told me to. What they do with it is their business.” She turned and marched down the hall.
She was smack-dab in the middle of the corridor, so he had to bob and weave to keep up with her. “Is your car fixed?”
“No.” She pressed on, past the dispatch room.
“Hi, Kevin!” Harlene yelled.
He paused. Wav
ed. “Hi, Harlene!” He had to take two large steps to catch up with Hadley, which was something, considering his legs were a lot longer than hers. “Did you drive your grandfather’s car?”
“No.”
He stopped in front of the interview room. It differed from the interrogation room in that it had windows, and the table and chairs weren’t bolted to the floor. “How are you getting home?”
“I’m walking.”
“To Burgoyne Street?”
She finally looked up at him. “It’s not the other side of the moon, Flynn. It’ll take me thirty minutes, tops.”
“Come with me. I’ll drop you off after I run this guy to St. Alban’s.”
She shook her head. “No, thanks.”
“You’re angry with me. About what I said to the chief.”
She set the edge of her jaw. “Forget what you said to the chief. It’s just . . . Look. Last night was an emergency. I’m not letting you take me anywhere if I can get there on my own.”
“Why not?” He meant it to be civil, inquiring; instead it steamed out, frustrated and perplexed. “It’s not like I’m asking you out. I’m not trying to steal a march on your spectacular career in the department. I’m just trying to be friendly, for chrissakes. That’s all. Why do you keep blowing me off?”
She looked at him as if he had donned a hockey mask and fired up his chain saw. “My spectacular career in the department?”
He erased the words in midair. “I didn’t mean to say that. Forget it.”
Her lush lips thinned, and two angry red blotches marred her perfect skin. “Are you making fun of me?” She didn’t look so beautiful now, and it was a relief, because for the first time it felt like maybe they might belong to the same species. “Because I haven’t been studying to be a cop since I was in diapers? Which for you was, like, four weeks ago.”
He could feel it, in that second, a fault line running through his head and heart as his blind adoration cracked and fell away. “I’m not making fun of you. I’m trying to be friends. I’m starting to guess you don’t recognize the concept because you don’t have any.”
She held up her hands as if framing a camera shot. “Let me set you straight. I didn’t come here to make friends. I came here to do a job, get paid, and go home.”
“Where your life is so perfect, no doubt.”
“Where my life belongs to me. And my children. And I don’t have to explain, or justify, or meet anyone else’s expectations. So, no, Flynn, I don’t want to be your friend. If you thought otherwise because you caught me in a weak moment last night, I’m sorry, but that was your thought, not anything I said or did to encourage you.”
She swung the door to the interview room open and stepped in, hanging off the doorknob. She rattled off a long sentence in loud Spanish, then swung back into the hall, pulling the door with her. Her eyes went round. “Sir,” she said.
Kevin whirled around. The chief was a few feet behind him, his expression a blend of irritation and weariness. “Kevin,” he said, “are you bothering Officer Knox with unwelcome and unprofessional attention?”
“No! I mean, I didn’t think I was. I didn’t mean to.”
The chief’s eyes cut to Hadley. “Officer Knox?”
She jerked her chin up. “I was just setting down the ground rules for Officer Flynn, sir. No offense taken.”
“Then let me set down the ground rule. Singular and simple. There will be no fraternization among members of this department. Failure to observe this rule will result in administrative notice, disciplinary action, and possible suspension. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, Chief.”
“Good. This is a police department, not a high school dance.” The chief pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. “Appearances sometimes to the contrary.”
X
“I don’t know why he seemed nervous.” Janet tucked the phone more firmly beneath her chin and lifted the lid on the pot. The water had come to a boil. “Maybe because he’s a stranger in a strange land? Maybe because when you come over all cop you can be as intimidating as hell?” She ripped the top off a bag of egg noodles and dumped them into the water.
“I didn’t try to browbeat the kid,” her brother said. “For chrissakes, you sound like Clare—Reverend Fergusson.”
Interesting. Should she pursue that line of—
“I just want to know if you’ve observed anything, anything at all, that might account for his twitchiness.”
“Not here,” she lied. “He spends most of his time working at St. Alban’s. I suggest you ask Clare—Reverend Fergusson.” She plunged a slotted spoon into the pot and stirred while listening to Russ breathe. He had this certain way of doing it when you pushed his buttons just right. She smiled to herself.
“I’m going to bring Amado back to your place—the new place—after he finishes up tonight. It’ll give me a chance to check out the house he’s living in. Just to get a feel for things.”
Oh, shit. “Aren’t you supposed to get a warrant before you search people’s property?”
“Well, it sort of depends, Janet. Do I need to get a warrant on you and Mike?”
She dropped the colander in the sink, letting the crash disguise her hiss of frustration. “Of course not,” she said, when her voice was under control. “By all means, bring him home and check out the house. Maybe you’ll find he’s got a box of Playboys under his bed and he feels guilty about that.”
His voice was dry. “If I do, I’ll hand him over to Mom. Since she’s already had experience with that sort of thing.”
The doorbell dinged. “Emma!” There was no answering yell from her thirteen-year-old. The bell dinged again. “Hang on,” she told Russ. “Somebody’s at the door.”
God. She was going to have to call over to the bunkhouse and have all the men clear out. Their stuff, too. Where was she going to put them, the barn?
She yanked the door open. A tall heavyset man in shit-kicker boots stood there. He wore a barn jacket and blond hair that had escaped from 1983. “ ’Scuse me, ma’am,” he said, “but I’m looking for Amado? He works for you?”
She shook her head. “He works at St. Alban’s Church, in town. He just rooms out here.” She’d seen this guy before, but she couldn’t place where. The IGA or the Agway? “I’m sorry. Have we met before?”
He stuck out a grubby hand. “Dunno, but I’ve met your husband at the auctions. I’m Neil.” He pumped her arm like he was trying to get water from a well. She resisted the urge to rub her shoulder when he finished.
“How on earth do you know Amado?”
“Hah. How I know Amado. Well. It’s like this.”
“Mom!” Oh, of course, now Emma was around. “Uncle Russ is on the phone and wants to know if you’re going to be all night?”
“What are you doing picking up the phone?” She glanced at the guy. “Sorry.”
“I wanted to know if you were using it! I’m waiting to get on line! If we had cable I wouldn’t have to wait!”
“Oh, God,” Janet muttered. Emma could go on in that vein for an hour.
“I can see you’re busy, ma’am. If you could just let me know when he’s getting home?”
Oh, sure. The last thing she needed was another stranger roaming around by the bunkhouse, ready to stumble over seven illegals. “He’s at St. Alban’s late tonight, cleaning up after their concert. Your best bet is to catch him there.”
“Thanks, ma’am.” He stepped off the porch and was vanishing into the dusk by the time she had the chance to close the door. She wondered again, for a second, how another local farmer had met up with their church-cleaning boarder. It teased at her, but then Emma started up again with her tirade against dial-up Internet access, and she remembered Russ was waiting, and she thought, How am I going to hide my employees from my brother? And the thought was gone.
XI
Peace be within thy walls,
And plenteousness within thy palaces!
The choir finished. The organ thundered to a close. There was a moment of silence, as the last triumphant notes of Parry’s “I Was Glad When They Said Unto Me” reverberated. Then someone clapped, and in a second, St. Alban’s stone walls echoed with deafening applause. Clare, whose official duties had been completed after welcoming everyone to the church and introducing the choir, whanged away with the rest of them, amazed, as she always was, that the same group of people she heard grumbling and going flat and repeating a single musical phrase over and over and over in their rehearsals could create a sound of such inexpressible beauty.
The choir bowed, and then the music director, Betsy Young, emerged from behind the organ, her cheeks brilliantly colored, bits of her hair sticking to the side of her face. One of the tenors brought her a hefty bouquet of roses, and she turned an even more spectacular shade of red.
Clare caught Doug Young’s eye and slid out of her pew at the rear of the church. Betsy’s husband had been pressed into service collecting the “suggested donations,” and now it was time to see how well they had done. He scooped up the metal change box and Clare fished the sacristy key out of her skirt pocket. “They were wonderful,” she said, as they threaded their way through the crowd to the front of the church.
“They were,” he said. “And I am so glad it’s over.” He flashed her a grin.
Yes, well. Betsy had been a tad caught up in prepping for the concert.
Doug glanced around. “Your friend from New York’s not here?”
“Hugh? No, he had to work. Some deal his bank is putting together. He had to fly to Las Vegas.”
“Too bad. For you, I mean, not for him. Vegas isn’t any hardship.”
“It’s okay. We’re pretty casual. And he’ll be up for the St. Alban’s Festival next month.”
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