Port City Black and White

by Gerry Boyle

  Copyright © 2011 by Gerry Boyle

  All rights reserved

  Cover photograph: istock © selimaksan

  Designed by Lynda Chilton

  ISBN: 978-0-89272-957-9

  5 4 3 2 1

  Distributed to the trade by National Book Network

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Boyle, Gerry, 1956-

  Port City black & white : a Brandon Blake novel / by Gerry Boyle.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-89272-957-9 (trade hardcover : alk. paper)

  1. Police--Maine--Fiction. 2. Missing children--Investigation--Fiction.

  3. Portland (Me.)--Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3552.O925P65 2011

  813’.54--dc22

  2011016862

  Dedicated to the memory of my brother,

  James Daniel Boyle, 1942–2004.

  A good man.

  The caller didn’t leave a name—no surprise, seeing as it was 3:55 a.m. in the scuffed-up neighborhood just up from the Oaks. Somebody there said they wanted the lady at 317 Granite, third floor, to turn down the freakin’ television.

  “Three-seventeen,” Kat said.

  “That’s Chantelle’s,” Brandon said, turning off Congress.

  “Lance just got out of Cumberland County,” Kat said.

  “Cuddle up on the couch with her sweetie.”

  “Watch a movie.”

  “And smoke some crack,” Brandon said.

  “Ah, romance,” Kat said. She smiled. Brandon hit the gas.

  It had been a quiet Thursday night in Parkside, drug dealers and buyers scared away by a sweep that bagged four people for trying to score crack and three for trying to sell it to them. Average night, but the blue lights and undercover cops had the junkies and dealers spooked, at least for a day or two. Now Granite Street, with its triple-deckers and scruffy maples, looked almost as it had been intended when the city was laid out, Brandon thought. A quiet residential avenue overlooking a tranquil city park.

  Brandon grabbed the mic, said, “We’ll be off.”

  He double-parked and they got out, looked up. From the sidewalk they heard shouting, tires screeching, gunshots. The third-floor windows showed the lightning flicker of a television playing in the dark.

  “Guess Lance wouldn’t go for the chick flick,” Kat said.

  Brandon frowned.

  “Doesn’t she have a baby?” he said.

  They hustled up, Kat the triathloner taking the stairs two at a time, her equipment creaking. At the fourth-floor landing they paused. There were beer cans piled in the corner, a torn white T-shirt on the floor, a red brassiere beside it, like the person inside the clothes had been vaporized. Kat listened for a moment at the door, heard angry voices. “De Niro,” she said, and knocked.

  The movie blared. Nobody answered. Kat pushed and the door swung open with a long, languid creak. The sour smell of cigarettes and alcohol billowed out, tinged with a faint whiff of burnt crack cocaine. They stepped in.

  “Chantelle,” Brandon said. “Portland PD.”

  Somewhere inside the apartment a beer can clanged. “Chantelle,” Kat called.

  They walked into the front room, dimly lit by the blue glow. There was trash on the floor and it crunched underfoot. A torn easy chair overturned against the wall, stumpy legs turned out. Table smashed, splintered wood scattered. Lamp on its side, the shade crushed flat.

  “A good time was had,” Brandon said.

  “Oh, yeah,” Kat said.

  They walked into the next room, saw the back side of the television. It was five feet across, thick as a coffin, the kind they had twenty years ago in sports bars, everybody cheering Larry Bird and Magic.

  A woman cried out but it was the movie. Kat went around one side of the television, Brandon around the other. Chantelle was slumped on a broken couch that listed to one side. She was nested in a dirty blanket, holding a potato-chip bag. Sour cream and onion. Her feet, in white footie socks, were up on the edge of the cushion. She was wearing gray cotton sweatpants, a black tank top. The two cops stood in front of her but to the side, not blocking her view.

  “Hey,” Kat said.

  Chantelle continued to stare at the screen. Brandon looked at her: strawberry blonde, drug-haggard but still faintly pretty, a looker in high school. Her peak.

  She looked up at Kat, surprised to see her standing there.

  “Hey,” Chantelle said, like they’d awakened her from a dream. “This flick, it’s called Hide and Seek—like the game, you know? This girl, she has this wicked scary friend who’s, like, invisible.”

  She looked back at the screen. Brandon grabbed the remote from beside her, turned down the volume.

  “When was the party?” Kat said.

  Chantelle looked up blankly.

  “Oh, you mean Lance? That was, um, last night? But a lot of people hung out after. What’s today?”

  “Friday. They all gone now?” Kat said.

  Chantelle looked around, then back at the television.

  “I guess.”

  Kat slipped a flashlight off her belt, leaned close, and shined it into Chantelle’s eyes. The pupils were black pinpoints.

  “You’re high, honey,” Kat said.

  “No, I’m clean, Kat,” Chantelle said. “I swear to God.”

  “We look around here, we gonna find drugs?” Brandon said.

  “You find anything, it ain’t mine. All these people here, Lance’s friends. I didn’t know half of ’em. He makes friends easy in jail, why he’s always going back. I told him, I said—”

  “Chantelle,” Brandon said. “Where’s the baby?”

  She looked up at him.

  “Lincoln?”

  “You have another baby?” Brandon said.

  “No.”

  “Then where is he?”

  Chantelle shrugged. Her breasts moved, meager under her tank top, her ribs showing under a thin layer of tautly stretched skin.

  “Sleeping,” she said.

  “Where?” Brandon said.

  “In his room. Back there.”

  There was a door that led to the kitchen, liquor bottles on the counter reflecting the television light. Brandon walked back, saw another door on the far side. It was ajar, the room dark. He stepped over trash, kicked a baby bottle, rolling it across the floor. At the threshold he flicked his flashlight on. Pushed the door open.

  Brandon stepped in, swept the room with the light.

  A bare mattress. A box of Pampers, torn open. Tiny socks and T-shirts strewn on top of a broken bureau, the drawers hanging open like the place had been ransacked.

  No baby.

  He walked back to Chantelle and Kat, looked at his partner, shook his head.

  He picked up the remote, turned off the movie.

  “What are you doing, Blake?” Chantelle said. “It’s not over.”

  “Chantelle,” Brandon said. “There’s no baby in there.”

  She looked at him, peering through a haze.

  “Sure there is. He’s sleeping.”

  “He’s not. He’s not there. Where would he be? Did Lance take him?”

  “Lance? Who never changed a freakin’ diaper in his life? No way. Besides, it’s not his kid. It’s Toby’s kid. So Lance, he acts like Lincoln doesn’t fucking exist. I say to him, ‘He’s a freakin’ baby. Don’t take it out on him. Besides, I didn’t even know you when me and Toby hooked up.’ ”

  “Get up,” Brandon said. “Get off your lazy, drugged-out ass and show me the baby.”

  Chantelle stared at him, muttered as she started to get herself up.

  “Don’t have to get all wound up, Blake. Not my fault if—”

  “It is your fault,” B
randon said. “You’re his mother. Your responsibility.”

  “You think I invited those guys here? That buncha crackheads? Lance, he wanted to party. I’m like, ‘Why can’t we just get Chinese, chill out?’ ”

  “The baby, Chantelle,” Kat said. “This is about the baby.”

  Chantelle glared at Kat, too, heaved herself off the couch, wavered for a moment, then walked unsteadily toward the bedroom. She reached inside the door, flicked the light switch. The light didn’t go on. She walked in anyway, Brandon and Kat following. They turned their flashlights on the mattress, the rubble. Chantelle stared.

  “What is he?” Brandon said. “Six months old?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Does he crawl?” Kat said.

  “Rolls over,” Chantelle said.

  “I don’t think he rolled out the door, down the street,” Brandon said.

  “Who would have taken him?” Kat said. “Was your mom here?”

  “I don’t think so,” Chantelle said. “I don’t remember.”

  “Well, let’s call her,” Brandon said. “You can tell her you lost your kid.”

  They stepped back into the kitchen light and Brandon held out his cell phone. Chantelle took it, stared at it for a moment, then pressed the numbers. They waited.

  “She ain’t picking up,” Chantelle said.

  “Let it ring,” Brandon said.

  They stood and waited. A fly buzzed inside a beer bottle. The refrigerator hummed and rattled. The kitchen smelled of rotting food.

  “When did you put him to bed?” Kat said.

  “Jesus, I don’t know. Before Leno?” Chantelle said.

  “And you were on the couch ever since?” Kat said.

  “Yeah,” Chantelle said.

  “Didn’t get up to pee?” Brandon said.

  “No,” Chantelle said, and then, “Ma. Ma, it’s me. You got Lincoln? . . . Lincoln. Do you have him there? . . . Ma, will you friggin’ listen? Do you have Lincoln in your house?”

  Brandon and Kat watched her expression shift from impatience to puzzlement to panic.

  “Oh, my God,” Chantelle said, not to the phone, not to the cops, but to herself. “Somebody took my baby.”

  It was four thirty-five, the sky turning from black to deep blue, east to west. The team leader, Sergeant Perry, called Lieutenant Searles, asked if they should put out an Amber Alert. Searles said, no, not yet—not with a druggie mom who could have pawned the kid for a dime bag and a forty. Perry turned to the assembled team, supplemented by Detective Sergeant O’Farrell and Christiansen and his German shepherd.

  “Boyfriend, the dad, the grandmother, whatever,” Perry said. “I want to go through their houses, make sure this isn’t some domestic thing, just getting the kid out of there for a night. And all the neighbors, starting with this building, fanning out. I’d like to know who called in the noise complaint.”

  The sergeant, who played senior league baseball, did his dugout thing, extending his fist: “Ready? Let’s go.”

  The dog went first, clattering up the stairs, the cop following at the end of the leash. They waited in the driveway, then heard claws on the stairs. The dog lunged out of the door, down the driveway. He circled, nose down. Circled some more and doubled back.

  “Car,” Christiansen said. “Whoever it was got in.”

  Perry said, “Let’s go.”

  Brandon and Kat led O’Farrell up the stairs to the third floor. On the way, O’Farrell asked for background on Chantelle Anthony, which they gave: not a bad person, when she wasn’t using. Kat got her for Hydrocodone, forging prescriptions. Brandon had busted her for OxyContin, another time possession of crack, an eighty she’d gotten as a present from Lance on their two-month anniversary. Cleaned herself up a little when she was pregnant, the father of the baby, a hard-drinking lobsterman named Toby Koski, a good influence. But they’d split up right after the kid was born, and the new guy, Lance McCabe, a total dirtbag, was dragging Chantelle back down.

  “And the kid’s name is Lincoln?” O’Farrell asked, as they approached the apartment door. “What, for the president?”

  “No. Supposedly the baby was conceived in the back of a Town Car,” Brandon said.

  “Of course,” O’Farrell said.

  Chantelle was back on the couch, a big bleached blonde and tanned woman on one side, a smaller bleached blonde and tanned woman on the other. A potbellied guy in his thirties, NASCAR shirt, baseball cap backwards, sunglasses on the hat, leaned against the wall. The television was on, an infomercial for a diet supplement.

  “This is my ma,” Chantelle said. “Stacy.”

  “I’m Ronnie, Chantelle’s sister,” the smaller woman said, making it sound like an accusation. “This is our brother Jason.”

  The police introduced themselves. Jason glowered. “This the guy?” he said, looking at Brandon.

  “Blake,” the mother said, and she and the sister scowled as though this predicament were somehow the cops’ fault. O’Farrell found an unbroken kitchen chair, dragged it up in front of the couch, and sat. Took out a notebook. “Yesterday, ladies,” he said. “I want to hear all about it.”

  They started to gabble and O’Farrell held up his pen hand. “One at a time,” he said.

  Brandon and Kat went back out and down the stairs, the idea that one would ask questions while the other looked around. At the second-floor apartment, Kat knocked. Brandon sniffed, smelled spices. Curry?

  Kat knocked again.

  “Police officers,” she called. “We need to speak with you.”

  There was a rustling sound from inside, the door rattled, and there was the rustle again. Then whispering. Not English. Yel-la. Obreeza.

  “Sudanese. They’re saying, ‘Hurry—it’s the police,’ ” Kat said.

  “Hurry up and open the door, or hurry up and hide?” Brandon said.

  The rustling and whispering continued. Brandon knocked once more, rapping the door hard with his flashlight. Kat reached out and grabbed his arm. “Easy,” she said. “They’re getting the man of the house.”

  After five minutes, the door finally opened a foot and he stared out, a black man in his forties. Before dawn, and he was already fully dressed, in khaki slacks, a striped sport shirt, black polished shoes. “Yes,” he said.

  “Portland Police, sir,” Brandon said. “We need to speak to you.”

  The man opened the door wider and stepped out, closed the door behind him. “My name is Ali Otto,” he said.

  The police introduced themselves. Kat asked Otto if he knew Chantelle.

  “Miss Anthony,” Otto said. “I know her.”

  “How long have you lived here?” Kat said.

  “Two years, almost. Four years since Sudan. I work at the chicken factory. Chicken fingers.”

  “And who lives here with you, sir?” Brandon said.

  “My wife, my two sons, and my daughter. Altogether that’s five.”

  “How well do you know Chantelle?” Kat said.

  “She’s our neighbor. We help her.”

  “Help her how?” Brandon said.

  There was a rustle behind the door, someone listening.

  “The baby,” Otto said. “My daughter takes care of him.”

  “She babysits?” Kat said.

  “Yes, that’s what you call it.”

  “Is she babysitting Chantelle’s baby now?”

  Otto hesitated. There was a flicker of a frown.

  “No.”

  “He’s not in your apartment now, sir?” Brandon said.

  “No, he’s not.”

  “The baby may be missing from this building. May we check for ourselves?” Brandon asked. Kat gave him a look. Go easy.

  “Is something bothering you about the baby, Mr. Otto?” she said, and smiled.

  Otto looked away.

  “This is just between us, sir,” Kat said. “You can talk to us.”

  Otto frowned, pursed his lips. There were deep creases running across his forehead. Brandon thoug
ht of the saying, a furrowed brow. Furrows. Brandon figured he’d been a farmer in Sudan, before the chicken fingers. Been through the refugee mill.

  “Sir,” Kat said. “Please. This is important.”

  “Miss Anthony,” Otto began. “Her friends—”

  He paused.

  “Her friends what?” Brandon said.

  The go-easy look from Kat again. The smile.

  “Have her friends bothered your family?” she said.

  A longer hesitation. Otto licked his lips.

  “My daughter, she takes the baby some of the times, when Miss Anthony and her friends, they want to have the big party.” He said it awkwardly.

  “And they had a big party yesterday, didn’t they?” Kat said.

  “Yes, the friends, the boyfriend, they partying hard,” Otto said.

  “Did you call the police to complain about the noise?” Brandon said.

  Otto shook his head. “No. I never complain.”

  Lying on that one, Brandon thought.

  “And Chantelle didn’t bring the baby to you?”

  “No.”

  The frown again, in the eyes more than the mouth.

  “Did something happen with the friends?” Brandon said. “Something bad?”

  “No,” Otto said. “Everything’s good.”

  “Are you sure, sir?” Kat said.

  “I don’t believe you, Mr. Otto,” Brandon said. “Tell us the truth.”

  There was a long pause, Otto staring away. Someone whispered behind the door.

  “You can tell us,” Brandon said.

  “Maybe we can help you,” Kat said.

  “Okay,” Otto said. “So. It’s like this. These guys, they called us some bad things, yeah.”

  “Who?” Brandon said.

  “The men going to Miss Chantelle’s party. Yeah, it’s so. They called my daughter a bad name.”

  “In the hallway?” Brandon said.

  “Out front. My daughter was with her brothers. My sons, they want to fight them. My wife, she hears them. I am at the chicken fingers, yeah. She goes down, tells the boys to come inside. But then they walk right past our door, these tough guys. My boys hear them calling out. ‘Come fight.’ My wife stopped the boys, but next time, they get their—”

  He paused.

  “—friends.”

  Gangbangers, Brandon thought.