by Louisa Luna
Eldridge wet his lips with his tongue, and Alyssa held a glass of water underneath him. His mouth found the straw, and he drank.
“Sure,” he said. “Shame…shame about those girls.”
“Yes, sir,” said Cap. “Now first, could you tell me, are these the girls you saw when you were leaving the mall last Saturday?”
Cap brought the school photos of Kylie and Bailey to Eldridge.
“Wait!” said Alyssa. “Wait, wait, wait,” she muttered.
She went to the small table next to the bed, opened a drawer and pulled out a glasses case and a pair of large-rimmed black bifocals.
“Here,” she said, placing them on Eldridge’s head. They made him look like he was wearing a costume—a librarian for Halloween.
“Were those the girls you saw in the car?” said Cap.
Eldridge inspected the picture, like he was looking at a germ under a microscope.
“I’ll tell you, sir, I think so, but you understand my eyes aren’t what they used to be.”
“That’s fine,” said Cap, reassuring. “That’s not a problem. Now I’m going to show you another picture and if you could, please tell us if this person looks familiar to you.”
Cap pulled the mugshot of John McKie from his folder and held it up to Eldridge.
“Yeah,” said Eldridge, happy. “Now, that looks like Harry. Doesn’t it look like Harry?”
“Sure does, Uncle Roy,” said Alyssa.
“Except Harry’s never in a bad mood,” said Eldridge. “He’s a glass half full.”
“Mr. Eldridge,” said Cap, gentle, quiet. “Did you see this man with those girls in the car when you left the mall last Saturday?”
“Well, sure I did,” said Eldridge. “He was driving. I tried a get his attention, but Harry’s a good driver; he’s looking straight ahead.”
Vega glanced at Alyssa, who looked back at her, her face a mixed grill of sad and worried.
Then Eldridge placed a giant hand on the expanse of his forehead, his fingers crooked at the knuckles.
“Aw, hell, Lyssie,” he said. “Harry’s dead, isn’t he?”
“Yeah, Uncle Roy,” said Alyssa, crying a little bit. “Over in Vietnam.”
“This fellow, he only wears his hair the same way,” Eldridge said to Cap.
“I think so, Mr. Eldridge.”
Eldridge’s lips curled in and milky tears rolled down his face.
“ ’Cause Harry’s dead. Long dead.”
“Yes, sir,” said Cap, so soft and sweet it made Vega want to lie down and go to sleep. “Do you remember anything else about this man who looked like Harry, or the little girls, or the car?”
Eldridge pinched his nose with his thumbs.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “Car was tannish, I think. Had a bumper sticker,” said Eldridge. “Giants, New York Giants.” Eldridge laughed. “Harry never woulda had that, would he, Lyssie? He was a true blue Eagles fan.”
It made Cap smile, the way Eldridge said “Eagles” like “iggles.”
“You bet, Uncle Roy,” Alyssa said, laughing too.
“That’s incredibly helpful, sir,” said Cap. “I can’t tell you how much we appreciate it.”
“Thank you,” Vega said, louder than she had planned, so even Cap turned and appeared surprised.
“We’re glad to help,” said Alyssa. “Isn’t it so, Uncle Roy? If we could help find those missing girls?”
Eldridge did not seem glad to help. He lowered his brow, looked wistful, could have been trying to remember what he had for breakfast or how he was a paper boy in the Depression. Could be anything, Vega thought.
“Aw hell, Lyssie, looks like I peed,” he said, shifting around.
“It’s okay, Uncle Roy, I’ll get the stuff,” said Alyssa. She turned to Cap and Vega. “You folks need anything else?”
“No, thank you, this has been very valuable to us. Thank you both,” said Cap.
He continued to talk to her as they left the room. Vega looked back once more at Eldridge, gazing up like he was trying to make out words on the ceiling. For a second Vega looked up there too, just in case.
—
Cap hung up with Traynor, stared at some boys in long T-shirts, hair falling in their eyes. They sat at a table in the food court, drinking juice from giant cups, straws squeaking in the plastic lids.
He saw Vega behind the counter at the Peking Express, showing photos to a large woman wearing a polo shirt, the manager. The woman also had papers for Vega and flapped her hands while she talked like she was swatting flies. Vega stared at the hands, and it made Cap smile because she looked like just another cop, listening to all the details a witness wanted to tell you along with their opinions and psychological diagnoses.
“Mr. Caplan?”
Cap turned around, saw a lovely tired woman with a toddler asleep in a stroller in front of her. The last time he had seen her, a couple of days ago, she had been just as lovely, only angrier.
“Hey. Hi, Mrs. Svetich,” he said. “Who’s this?”
“That’s Cammy,” she said. “He’s my youngest. This is when he’s the cutest.”
Cap laughed and started to say the thing about little kids, little problems, but she cut him off.
“I’m glad I ran into you,” she said. She was not shaking, but it looked like she was about to start. “I wanted to tell you I’m sorry for how I behaved the other day. In your office. I shouldn’t have taken out my anger about my shitty marriage on you.”
She said it quickly, as if she’d said it before. Cap pictured her rehearsing in the mirror. Mr. Caplan, I’m glad I ran into you.
“Please,” said Cap. “You have nothing to apologize about.”
“I do,” she said firmly. “I tell my kids all the time: just because you’re in a bad mood doesn’t give you the right to take it out on the world.”
“What do they say to that?”
“They don’t listen to a thing I say,” she said. “But you know, I figure I keep telling them this shit, and then one day they’ll be twenty-five and they’ll remember it.”
“And where will you be then?” said Cap, not even thinking about what he was asking or why he was asking it, but if he thought about it he would know it was her, Mrs. Svetich, at exactly this point, with no filters, clogs removed from the drains, speaking plainly, and it made him want to do the same.
“When they’re twenty-five?” she said, charmed by the idea. “On a beach somewhere, I don’t know.”
Then she laughed, embarrassed, and Cap laughed and thought how this would be a part of her divorce story years from now, how she ran into the detective a few days after he had caught her ex, and he made her laugh.
“There you go,” said Cap. “I’ll expect a postcard.”
She laughed in a burst, and then tears filled her eyes.
“Mrs. Svetich—” Cap began.
She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek and hugged him then, clung to him, pushed her face into his neck. Cap could feel her breasts against his chest, the moisture from her eyes and nose, her lips. Very slowly he put his arms around her and closed his eyes, did the hair-smelling thing (some kind of berries, but that could have been coming from Jamba Juice). Her arms were thin but strong like belts, stretching around his neck and pulling him close.
So much of it was unfamiliar, he had a hard time parsing it out—the smell, the skin, the closeness, the need. But all of it was good, glorious, exquisite.
Finally she stepped away. Cap let her go instantly, did not want her to think he might have enjoyed what was probably a peak moment of loneliness for her. She patted her damp cheeks and looked at him, not shy in the least.
She said, “Everything happens at the wrong time, doesn’t it?”
Cap felt spun and skinned by that one.
“Yes,” he said. “It does.”
She turned around and looked at her kid. “He’ll be awake any minute. It was nice to see you, Mr. Caplan. I hope I see you again.”
&
nbsp; Her eyes were huge and dark, and there was nothing hidden away behind them. Cap was so caught off-guard by her honesty all he could say was “Yes.”
Then she left, wheeled the stroller around, shopping bags dangling from the handles. Cap watched her go, the shape of her moving under a flimsy drape of a dress that looked insubstantial for the beginning of spring. He watched her get smaller and smaller, turn a corner at the Old Navy and then disappear.
He looked at his hands, front and back, could still feel the warmth from Mrs. Svetich’s body, and leaned against the table so he could breathe, stoned from the intimacy.
—
Vega held the mugshot of John McKie in her hands and waited for the manager to come back with his original job application, which was the only information on him that was available. She examined the people standing around, sitting, eating, shopping bags at their feet. She studied their shoes and their earrings and the way they held their spoons. Noticed the irregularities of their faces: unevenly spaced eyes, discolored skin, moles, beards.
She realized Cap had been gone for some time, and turned to find him, and there he was, across the food court, hugging a woman. “Hugging” didn’t seem an accurate word to describe how they were touching each other. The woman was clinging to Cap like she was drowning, and he was the life raft, which made Vega the one on some distant shore with broke-ass binoculars.
The woman left Cap and wandered off, slowly pushing a stroller. Cap watched her and didn’t move. He was a little too far away for Vega to see his face, but she took in his posture—most of it was as she had observed before: minor slump in the shoulders, feet rooted slightly farther apart than the hips, neck curved and head tilted, quizzical. But one difference now: his hands were out in front of him a few inches, like he was waiting for the woman to come right back.
Vega’s phone buzzed with a text from the Bastard.
“Still looking for K. Brandt the person but found someone else looking for him too. Seems like you guys have a lot in common. Email coming with details.”
Vega put the phone in her pocket and looked back at Cap. Still facing the direction of the woman but on his phone, texting the way he did with an index finger tapping out one letter at a time. Then he turned around, eyes scanning the crowd for her. She didn’t wave or come forward, just waited for him to find her, and when he did he waved broadly, relieved or resigned, she couldn’t tell.
12
Cap tapped the number at the top of his recents and set the phone in the cup holder. There was a gulp in the air and then the ring, then a pickup: “Kendrick.”
“Officer Kendrick, this is Max Caplan. Sorry I missed you.”
“That’s fine,” said Kendrick on the phone, his voice wavering loud and quiet. “You want to know about John McKie?”
“Yes. You met with him the last time—” Cap paused.
Vega held up one finger and mouthed, “Year.”
“A year ago, is that correct?” said Cap.
“Yeah, that’s right. He completed his parole.”
“You have any idea where he is now?”
Kendrick laughed.
“We didn’t talk too much, socially. So no, I don’t know where he is. Can I ask why you’re looking?”
“We’d like to question him in an ongoing investigation. The Brandt girls. Can you tell us anything that might be helpful in that regard?”
“In finding him? The guy lived with some friends but not for long. Had a job at the mall, right?”
“Yeah, we just came from there.”
“He had a girlfriend too—she’d been down in Riverside in Philly. Charming girl.”
Cap smiled and looked over at Vega, who did not smile.
“He stayed with her for a long time. Her family was up in Wilkes-Barre. I’d try her. Even if he’s not with her, she might know.”
“Great, can you get us her name?”
“Yeah, give me a few minutes to go through the notes. I’ll send you a text.”
Cap said thanks, and Kendrick said he was happy to help and then hung up. Cap tapped the wheel with his thumbs.
“So we get the name, maybe we send it to your guy? Vega?”
He looked over. Her eyes were closed, her head leaning into the sling of the seat belt, asleep. Her hands were in her lap, fingers twitching. Cap smiled, glad she was getting rest. Also realized he worried about her getting rest. Realized he was worried about her at all. Some loose strands of her hair fell across her cheek, into her eyes, and Cap thought what was the harm in it, really, just to sweep it off her face and bring it behind her ear. I’ll barely touch her, he thought.
—
Vega was not asleep, just shut down for a while. She pictured John McKie, and she pictured Evan Marsh, head shots and camera flashes behind her eyes. They were dots on a map with roads sprouting out from each like veins, and only one road was the one, only one lit up from underneath with runway lights, but she couldn’t see where it led.
Cap’s phone dinged, and Vega opened her eyes and sat up. Cap grabbed at his phone but somehow knocked it onto the floor, near Vega’s feet.
“Fuck,” he said, disoriented. Like he had been asleep.
Vega picked it up and read from Kendrick’s text aloud.
“The girl’s name is Dena Macht. In Riverside for eighteen months for assault and possession of drugs and stolen property. Corresponded with John McKie while on the inside and then reunited when they were both out. Kendrick said before they were arrested their hobbies included smoking meth, snorting Vicodin, picking pockets, and stealing from family. He would not be surprised if they were involved in one or more of those activities currently.”
Vega scrolled, read more.
“That’s how Dena Macht got busted in the first place. Her parents called it in.”
“Her parents,” said Cap.
Vega typed in a message to the Bastard on her phone, and then Cap’s phone buzzed again and she read the text on the screen.
“Who’s that?” he asked.
“Traynor. He wants us to come in.”
“Why?”
“They have Kevin Brandt.”
Then she had to put both phones in her lap because of the sweat budding on her hands. Also on the bottom of her feet, muddying the insides of her shoes, and a single drop slipping down her arm. She opened the window and stuck her head out. It was getting dark, and there was a little rain in the air.
Cap was asking her questions but she didn’t answer; she breathed and tried to count five on the inhale and five on the exhale. Push, pull, said a yoga teacher in her head. In breath to the out breath.
Fuck you, said Vega to the yoga teacher. I want the shallow breath, and I want the sweat, and I want the headache. It means I’m close.
—
Cap huddled in a hallway with Traynor, Junior, and the Fed. Vega stood with her back flush against the wall, not leaning. She had her jacket draped over her forearm and her skin was wet and white. Cap tried to get her eye, but she wouldn’t look at him.
“Brandt’s in A,” said Junior.
“Who’s with him?” asked Cap.
“No one right now,” said Junior. “Says he has a lawyer coming.”
Traynor added, “He claims he doesn’t know where the girls are, hasn’t seen them in eight years. Same story Jamie told us.”
“Where’d you find him?”
“Town in southern Ohio,” said the Fed. “Living under the name Miss Vega’s contact provided. We had people search his home, where a number of illegal recreational substances were recovered.”
“But not two girls,” said Cap.
“No. His alibi checks out as well.”
“Which is what?”
The Fed paused, looked at him sideways.
“That he was in southern Ohio at the time of the abduction. He’s got half a dozen people who can vouch for him.”
“Yeah, but he lived here once,” said Cap. “He could still have connections here.”
“He didn�
�t know Evan Marsh,” said Traynor. “Says he didn’t.”
“Who’s talking to him?”
“Harrison could,” said Traynor.
“Let Vega do it,” said Cap.
She looked up, pushed gently off the wall.
Junior stiffened up, ready to talk. Traynor cut him off.
“She’s not a police officer,” said Traynor, but he wasn’t digging in.
“Brandt’s not a suspect,” said Cap. “They’re perfect for each other. He also owes eight years of child support—he doesn’t have a lot of cards here.”
Traynor and the Fed glanced at each other. Cap felt them tipping. Come on, he wanted to say, she’s having an anxiety attack; this will be just the thing to snap her back. Some girls need a spa treatment to unwind; this one likes an interrogation. Vega looked at him, brows heavy over her eyes, tired and a little grateful.
—
It was a little room, had the coppery smell of office machinery. Kevin Brandt sat at a square table, texting on his phone when Vega came in.
“Who are you?” he said.
“Vega.”
“Yeah, who are you? Cop, lawyer, FBI?”
His voice was nasal, congested, and he had a flat face like an inbred dog.
“No,” said Vega.
She sat opposite him, and he sniffed loudly.
“Then why are you here? You know my ex-wife? Huh?”
Vega folded her arms.
Brandt dropped his phone on the table and pressed a fingertip hard on top of it.
“You can’t keep me here without charging me, you know that, right?”
Vega was quiet.
“I got a lawyer,” Brandt said. “He’s coming.”
Vega leaned forward and laced her fingers together on the table like an altar boy.
“Where are the girls?” she said.
“How should I fuckin’ know?” said Brandt.
“When’s the last time you saw them?”
“Eight years ago,” he said, not having to think about it.
“You know a guy named Evan Marsh?”
“Nope.”