by Lee Baldwin
I’m in the back of an unmarked car. Wolfe was here for a moment. He didn’t speak, only shook his head sadly. Cuffs are gone. I’m cold and I’m shaking. Tears streak my face but no sound comes. For Montana, for Mick’s corruption and her lost promise. She could’ve been great, if not overcome by her lust for power.
What hurts is the daughter. For the living hell Mick brought her. She had differences with her mom but never suspected how far off center she’d become. This ultimate betrayal will cut that girl like fire.
I resolve again, for the hundredth time in the last four years, to find a way to make Mick pay. He cost me three years of my life in a state lockup, a permanent blot on my record, most of my friends. A chance with Stacy. And now, indirectly, the life of a woman I once cared about. My demands are small. I want Mick crushed.
We are downtown. I’m not in the lockup yet, haven’t been processed. They did take all my valuables and put them in a large envelope. But Wolfe left me alone in this interview room, which is a big step up from joining the gaggle in a holding cell.
Good thing is, it gives me some time to think, which is a bad thing. What keeps cutting a groove in my brain is how to tell Tharcia her mother is dead. What about the circumstances? Do we say, your mother was fleeing a police intervention, pointed her weapon at some nice officers who blew her head off? The thought brings revulsion. I will do everything in my power so Tharcia never hears that story.
Hidden players out there pulling my strings. My paranoia’s in the red zone. Wade’s friend Drake. Greedy fool. And Montana, her guy chain-smoking on my porch waiting until I come home so he can put a bullet through me. Mick, a child abuser who’s running a mini-cartel from inside Lancaster, setting me up to do some pointless political hit so Montana can pop me in the process and make herself look good. I’m out of the way, hero badge for her. But she was wrong about my stash. They will never find it But now I’m sure what it contains.
This depressing reverie is interrupted when Wolfe comes in with another man who carries a small box. While Wolfe wears chinos and a sport jacket, this man wears a dark suit, diamond stickpin in his tasteful necktie. Hair gray at the temples, erect posture, bushy brows, he stands to one side. I get up. Who’s this guy, the District Attorney? Did he get out of bed to read charges on me in the middle of the night?
“Mr. Clay, this is Harlan Rich from the D.A.’s office. We have a situation here.” The two men exchange glances. Rich clears his throat.
“Mr. Clay, we understand you’ve been helpful and cooperative. But we have an issue of departmental confidence whenever one of our people is injured.” My heart holds its breath. Is he about to say Montana’s okay?
“Whenever we lose an officer, there are certain, ah, procedures to be followed.” The two exchange guarded looks. “We think it’s best, Mr. Clay, if we filter, or shape some of the events that took place this evening. For the press. For friends, even for the family.”
“So are you cooking a story to tell her daughter?”
Wolfe clears his throat. I can see he’s having a very bad night. “Mr. Clay, it’s a matter of departmental morale. What happened tonight, the official story, is that Agent Harrison was pursuing one of her parolees. There was gunfire. An officer was wounded, and Agent Harrison sadly lost her life in the firefight.”
I look at these two in disbelief. Then I think there might be a helpful practical matter.
“Does she have a life insurance policy? Is there anything for her daughter?”
Harlan Rich picks it up. “Mr. Clay, the Department takes care of its own. But there are realities.”
Realities. Like what, Catch-22? “Does she have any family?”
“She has an aunt, in Los Angeles. We haven’t contacted that family yet, but were on it.”
Vaguely I recall a sister. Catherine?
“Has anyone told Tharcia?” I ask, at which point helpless anguish invades my chest. Wolfe’s face reflects the same. He’d met Tharcia, the night Montana fled.
“We have not,” Wolfe says, shaking his head. “We were hoping...”
Rich picks it up. “It is preferable for you to accompany detective Wolfe here, and our Trauma Intervention Specialist, to inform the daughter.”
That fills me with icy dread. I can barely nod.
“Detective, do you have Agent Harrison’s effects?”
From the box Wolfe removes two clear baggies. One contains Montana’s purse. The other holds smaller articles. Her cell phone, a pair of reading glasses, keys, her red leather wallet, a small address book, lipstick, makeup, that sort of thing. No fancy jewelry.
Abruptly I remember the night long ago when police came to our house with a bag like that, containing my dad’s valuables, collected from the wreck of his car. Too real.
“No!” I blurt out. Both men look at me in surprise. “Don’t show her that. Not yet. Please not yet.” I can only plead with my eyes.
“We need to go now,” Wolfe says. I follow them out. He stands with me at the glassed-in cubicle as a cop slides toward me an envelope containing my wallet, phone, car keys, change, all the stuff I’d had on me. Apparently, I’m not being charged. I look at Wolfe, he simply nods.
Joining us in the jail parking lot is a diminutive woman who calls herself Ricky Emmanuel. She explains she’s a TIS, trauma intervention specialist. She works everything from family services to officer emotional trauma response. On the ride through San Jose’s dark streets she’s asking me what I know about the victim, and about Tharcia. I’m so close to tears my answers are incoherent, Ricky asks me in a soft voice to please repeat. She’s already found out I’d lost my folks, have a brother I never see.
“I haven’t seen Montana for almost 20 years,” I tell her. “We ran into each other recently by chance. I became friends with her daughter and some of the daughter’s friends. I don’t know any adults Tharcia is close to.”
“Have you spent any time with the daughter?” Ricky asks.
“Some. She and her girlfriend were at my house one evening, the night Montana ran. Wolfe was there. We’ve talked on the phone several times, I spoke to her at their home some.”
Ricky looks at me closely. “So Mr. Clay, how would you describe your relationship with the daughter?”
“Friends. Family friends. Well, I was friends with Montana. Agent Harrison. And Tharcia is...”
Then I can only shake my head, holding up a hand as if to push the whole thing away. Ricky’s hand rests on my arm. Turning into a quiet street we pull up in front of the house. Rayne’s gray pickup is in front, Tharcia’s little gold sedan is in the driveway. Montana’s Jeep, of course, is nowhere to be seen.
Chapter 11
Hot Pink Ice
CRUISING MONTANA’S STREET this cool Saturday, I’m surprised at the many cars. Can’t park on her block at all. I’m walking along, slacks and a black leather jacket, fresh haircut for once, looking through branches of bare winter trees to cloudy sun overhead. Car door slams behind me, a woman’s high heels clip-clip along the sidewalk. From a block away, I see a couple in somber clothing walk slowly toward Montana’s house.
Funny. Being away from someone for a long time you have no idea what their life has become, who it has touched. People talking on the porch, front door standing open. Voices, music from inside, tunes we danced to in school. I edge my way through the door, excuse me, pardon me. Small tight smiles.
Kitchen counter’s loaded with food, fruits, meats, salads, casseroles, desserts. Finger food. Bottles of wine, soft drinks. People elbow to elbow balancing plates, wine glasses. The box of Godiva chocolates I brought gets wedged in somehow.
No sign of Tharcia. Rayne’s in the kitchen with a knot of young people, Tharcia’s school friends presumably. Twyla is there, talking to a woman I’m betting is Montana’s sister, what the heck is her name? I see Ricky, the trauma intervention specialist, talking to some others, maybe parole cops. Couple school classmates I recognize say hi with their eyes.
I work my way through, R
ayne sees me, her face is veiled in weariness. She hugs tight, I feel in her the tension of carrying so much pain for her friend.
“Clay,” she says, pulling back to look at me. She looks wiped out. “It’s so so sad. How senseless.”
I nod glumly. This is going to be hard, staying connected with the cover story Wolfe pasted on top of the reality at the stadium. Agent Harrison, intervening in a difficult case, ends up shot to death.
“She was a true professional, a real giver,” I say. How the hell do I not vomit?
“I just met Tharcia’s aunt,” Rayne tells me. “Do you know each other? Catherine, do you remember Clay?” She touches a woman’s shoulder, who turns from her conversation with Twyla, looks at me.
“Is that Stuka?” She gives me a brief smile, puts out her hand. There’s a resemblance, it is almost spooky to look at her.
“This is so difficult for me, you can’t imagine. One day I’m taking my boys to soccer practice, next day I’m flying in to bury my sister and help poor Tharcia.”
I nod, reading her face. Trying to remember. I’d seen her occasionally at the family place when I came on my trail bike to pick up Montana.
“How is Wade doing, is he here with you?” She’s interested, more than merely curious. She and Wade knew each other in school, makes her a couple years older than Montana.
I shake my head. “How is Tharcia doing?” I haven’t seen her since I came in.
“Holding up,” Rayne says at my elbow. Catherine’s reply is cut off when Twyla pushes through for a hard hug. She starts sobbing like she’d been saving it. Annoyance on Rayne’s face.
Catherine gets re-started. “Tharcia is a mess, poor dear. I don’t know what I’m going to do. Somebody needs to take her out of this wretched situation. But I can’t handle my boys as it is, plus now a girl in college. Oh, I suppose she could transfer or something, but I don’t know how Jonathan and I can cope with it.”
Twyla pulls back, with a tissue dabs at streaked eyeliner. “Talk to you?” Doesn’t wait for an answer, she’s towing me through the crowd. I have time for an ‘excuse me’ glance for Rayne and Catherine. We’re headed out the door, to the sidewalk. Twyla faces me, holding the lapels of my jacket in clenched fingers. In the cloudy autumn light her hair is radiant copper. I notice for the first time she has green eyes.
“Stuka I have so needed to talk to you.” No explanation, she just looks at me, letting the line hang as though it means something. I shake my head.
Twyla pulls on my jacket until she’s pressed against me. “It’s been so hard for me, Tharcia is such an angel. You’ll know when you see her.” She’s in her own world. I ease her away.
“You have to do something for me, it’s mega important.”
“What’s up?”
“I need you to give her something.”
“Tharcia?”
She nods.
“Why can’t you do it yourself?”
She looks toward the house. “It’s just too. Embarrassing for me. I did something evil bad. Oh, Stuka I’m so sorry.” She’s pulling me in hard as though her sexual touch will bring forgiveness. I gather her wrists and push away.
“Alright. What is it?”
Her lip quavers as she pulls a small tan envelope from a coat pocket. Inside, the necklace and earrings from Montana’s night table. What she’d been wearing when I first saw her downtown. The stones glisten pinkish purple in the winter light.
“Twyla, what the hell are you doing with these?”
“I saw it on her night table. Couldn’t resist.”
“What were you even doing in Montana’s room?”
“It’s just me, Stuka. Sometimes I get a little bent. Will you help me? I just can’t face Tharcia right now, not with what she’s going through.”
“What were you doing in Montana’s bedroom?” My voice is harder now.
“Tharcia’s mom sometimes goes out late.”
“So?” Then I truly get it. “Did you give me something that night?”
Twyla looks down at her cute shoes for support. She nods. “You are so hot, Stuka.”
This little nut job actually drugged me. Then helped herself to Montana’s jewelry.
I am absolutely beyond pissed. Talking through clenched teeth. “You might not know this but I could be drug tested any time. If I fail I go back to prison. Tell me, would that be worth it for your little thrill?”
Now she can’t look at me at all. She lets go of my jacket. Her face sags. “I didn’t know.”
Now I’m grabbing her elbows, shaking her. “That was you, wasn’t it, when Montana left.”
She’s pulling away, not meeting my eyes. I let go. She’s looking at bare trees down the street, nodding unhappily.
“I don’t want you around me ever again. Tharcia deserves better friends.”
She glances up, shocked at my words, but it’s the hard look on my face that nails her. Stumbles back as if I’d shoved her, turns and starts unevenly down the sidewalk, like a sleepwalker.
I take a deep cleansing breath of the cold autumn air. The sun is pushing through clouds, blue shadows in the street. Turn to the house, people are leaving, I can see across the living room now. Ricky is there, studying two large poster boards covered with photographs. I stand with her, both of us looking at the pictures. Tharcia must have done this. It’s a whole lifetime, Montana as a young girl, a teenager, sometimes with men, many with Tharcia. Couple photos of Montana with me on my trail bike, Tharcia’s high school grad photo next to her mom’s, the raven and the blonde. Tharcia and her mom with friends, a younger Tharcia with her mom clowning, laughing together, running in the pumpkin maze out by Hollister. No photos of Mick. I’m getting a major lump in my throat.
In the doorway, Wolfe comes in as a couple plainclothes cops are leaving. They talk briefly.
Something familiar on the coffee table. The high school yearbook from our grad year. I flip through, wondering how Montana even got it. She’d left school early. No signatures and messages in it, but I do remember some of our classmates. Seeing them now makes me smile. And the senior photos, image of the kid I was then, not smiling, just maintaining.
Tharcia walks out of the hallway with two friends. Group hug, tearful kisses. They are leaving. Tharcia sees me, comes over. I hold her. Her face looks drained, but she seems more together than some of the method actors I’ve encountered today. Pulls me through the hallway, into Montana’s room. We sit on the edge of the bed.
She laughs, a small sound in a tired face. “It is so strange. Sometimes I completely run out of gas for this. Like it’s still there, but at a distance. For a while sometimes I can’t even feel it. Insulated. Then it comes crashing back in.”
I pat her hand. “It never stops, just changes. Only thing you can hope for, peaceful equilibrium. Someday.”
“It is so weird, the way some people act about it. Like they want me to move on, get over it, get closure. Like I’m supposed to be in a hurry to feel good.”
“Yah I’ve seen that too. People are afraid of grief.”
“I’m thinking it takes one to know one,” she replies, holding my gaze.
“You got that right.”
From the small bathroom, the first line of a current rap song. Tharcia gets up. “I’ve had that thing on the charger. Ricky brought Mom’s stuff.”
She comes back with the phone, were sitting there watching it ring. Caller ID shows a restricted number.
“It’s been doing this.”
My mind is suddenly going a mile a minute. “Have you answered any calls on her phone?”
Tharcia shakes her head. I’m getting an idea.
“Babe, I get the feeling it’s someone we want to talk to. Would you take a chance? Don’t answer. I’ll be right back.”
I return quickly with Wolfe in tow, close the door and explain what I’ve guessed.
“I think it’s Mick calling Montana. Tharcia has seen her talking to him, I think I have as well. If he will talk to her on speaker..
.” I let my meaning hang.
“What do I say?” Tharcia asks.
“He probably doesn’t know about Montana. It will shake him up. Because it’s you, if you say it’s you right away, maybe he won’t hang up. Maybe we can find out what’s going on with them.”
Wolfe agrees. Tharcia is noncommittal, unhappy enough as it is, without talking to a man who mistreated her as a child. But she knows we need her for this now.
She sets her mom’s phone on the bed. Pushes the speaker button, then callback. I’m amazed it even rings, sometimes you can’t get back to a disposable phone. We wait. I pull out my own phone and start recording video, Tharcia, the phone on the bed, for what might be said. Wolfe does the same. It stops ringing, voice comes on the other end.
“Hannah, that you?” Voice is unmistakable. Tharcia’s face confirms it.
“Micmac?”
If a silence can express surprise becoming comprehension, this one does. I visualize a man in a cell hearing a voice he hasn’t heard for years, trying to understand how this can even be.
“D-girl, that you? How’d ya get your mom’s phone?”
“Micmac it’s me. I’ve got her phone. Mom’s dead.”
Tharcia begins crying uncontrollably. Wolfe and I are motionless and silent. The distant voice comes through the speaker.
“What are you saying D-girl, what the hell happened? Are you okay?”
“She was shot, Micmac.”
Mick’s voice spills over into hardened anger. “Who’s mixed up in this?”
“It was just random,” Tharcia chokes out. “A random thing. Family violence with her parolee. The department is giving her honors.”
“Did that chickenshit boyfriend get it too?”
“What, Micmac? Nobody else got shot.”
“Has he been hanging around her? I’ll kill the suckah.” Mick has picked up the scent, doesn’t care about Tharcia, her pain, about Montana, only interested in making his own ego comfortable.
“Who are you talking about?” Tharcia fakes it well.